The little golden patch of crocus keeps trying. When the sun comes the buds are glorious and open, petals outstretched as arms embracing the hope of newness. When covered in ice or snow (or both), the buds are shut tight. Patient. Protected.
My crocus (or is it crocuses, or croci?) are resilient. Even after every type of weather dumped on them from confused clouds, they endure.
My little gold-buds contain wisdom. The perfect time for blooming is built into their bulbs and they obey the instructions without complaint or frustration.
My spring heralds are hope-harbingers. They are pretty, however the joy they deliver is also due to the promise of the new life they signal– spring returning after death and harsh barren cold.
My returning friends are delicate as butterfly wings and as strong as sub-zero ice. Their beauty is powerful and their strength is radiant.
My tiny droplets of colorful hope lead the entire garden community, sleepers still, waiting for safer days. The others are not strong enough to be a crocus.
I wonder if I am.