I’ve heard stories about how the crocus flower peeps through the snow.
Daffodil bulbs with an innate desire to grow.
Tulips that thrived in the cold,
withering when shipped to be sold.
|Fiona spots one of our tulips|
|This one has blown away.|
I’ve read Eliot’s poem about April being cruel,
especially noting the price of fuel.
I see the icy highways on the news,
wild seas and the unpleasant cruise.
Watched our petals take to the sky,
like butterflies waving a brief goodbye.
Though things seem bleak,
the way many speak,
we cannot mope.
We must understand this visual depiction of hope.
The promising end to winter storms,
as a time to be reborn.