To The Crocus
Words fail to capture
the essence of your spirit,
unsullied by fear.
Certain blooms, roses, tulips, and peonies come to mind, are celebrated for their beauty or scent, others like lavender are also valued for healing. History has it that the tulip was once a status symbol that gave rise to what was termed tulipmania in seventeenth-century Holland, and at one time tulip bulbs were worth as much as a mansion in Amsterdam. That is difficult to fathom.
Such flowers have been glorified in countless poems and paintings through the ages, and their singular looks warrant such accolades, but the flower that grabs my attention and admiration most is the crocus.
The spirit of the crocus is unmatched. I have watched these tender blooms burst out of the ground when snow still lingered. Their sheer hutzpah is inspiring to behold. They do not play the diva, they do not seek to be primed and pruned and pampered, they do not demand balmy days or cooling rain before they bestow us with their glory. Instead, the crocus is ready to add beauty to our world when it needs it most, after long wintry days without color. They are not intimidated by the cold. At times they are beaten down and appear defeated, but then amaze us with their resurrection.
How can one not be moved by the spunk, the heart, the moxie of this six-inch Amazon?