A lone Crocus

 

Lone Crocus

The grass is green and things are popping everywhere,  but there is still so much evidence of winter as well–bare branches especially, but so many areas of bare ground. This poor lone Crocus is a perfect example of  just how promising yet  bleak the process can be. Yet another reminder of all that is so fragile.  I’ve seen Emily Dickinson’s poem about hope at least twice in the past few weeks in whatever I’ve been reading lately, and  I know much of it by heart. It too is a reminder of so much………….. Hope is the thing with with feathers- that perches in the soul- and sings a tune without the words- and never stops at all—–And sweetest in the gale is heard-and sore must be the storm-that could abash the little bird-That kept so many warm——-I’ve heard it in the chillest land-And on the strangest sea-Yet, never in extremity, It asked a crumb-of Me.

 

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