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Crocus
Cruel winter winds and snowy storms have almost reached their end, and country roads are topped with slush, an ice and water blend. I see the thawed cold old earthen roads all sprouting shoots of green, and garden gates long frozen still, now swinging free, serene. I walk along the country path on which my home is found, until I reach an iron gate, much older than my town. The old graveyeard now obsolete is filled with old grave stones, and underneath, for sure, one finds a mass of ancient bones. I take this walk once every year on this same day and time, and hoping like it is today, the sun gives out its shine. My walk continues down a path all covered with old vines that form an arbor, lush and green, a scene with looks divine. And then I reach the path's far end and both my eyes refocus, for on the mass of ground, all covered full, are thousands of new crocus. Their yellow faces shining bright and waving from the breezes, not bothered by the weather cold or insects and their teases. I stand transfixed at this same spot for more than one full hour, adoring all the beauty fixed in this all natural bower. I'm high on Love as I trip home along the old time country path, and thank the Higher Power much, for all that he has wrath.
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Crocus
Crocus