Today I saw the first crocus of the year. A little purple guy poking up through the mud on the side of a dirt path, walking on my way to work. I'm not a big flower girl, but crocuses do to me what a hundred roses never will. They give a little bit of hope during a time when the world is bare. We're in the homestretch of the cold season, dangling in this place between winter and spring where it's all frozen winds and gray skies and mud.
When I was a kid I would run up our (long) driveway after school and everyday to check behind a certain rock. I was waiting for the crocuses to bloom. It started with just a sprout or two behind this old boulder, but by the time I was in middle school (and had to act like I didn't care about anything anyway) the wild flowers had spread around the rock. A little flock of wild hope that pushed through a still frozen ground while the rest of the world was still hidden.
Wild Crocuses remind me that some things are worth fighting for.
They tell me not to be afraid to bloom in winter. That sometimes love is muddy and sometimes it's cold. Lately I've wanted to just keep to myself and wait for another sunny day, a day when I feel like loving him better. But the crocus rejects this sort of hibernation, declaring that there must be a flower brave enough to bear the cold. So that others may walk by and see this bit of beauty and find hope.
I want to pick this wild crocus and tuck it behind my ear. But I'm late for a meeting and my days are moving fast, so I leave the bloom for another to see and smile my way down the path. Because it's almost spring and because I have someone to hope with. A love worth fighting for.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment