The first thing to bloom in my yard this year and just about every year, my tiny delicate crocus versicolor, purchased just after I moved here. It’s been blooming here and there ever since. It prefers much more sun than it gets here, and some years the greens come up but never flower, so I’m always glad to see one and know they’ve made it through another year.
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And here is my statement…
The days stolidly dark, the nights impenetrable, the monochromatic sameness seeped into my soul to harden it, slowly, without detection, as trees are petrified into stone replicas of themselves, unable to hide, fight, run and save themselves. Those last breaths, knowing the newness of life was just ahead, always it had been there as this process ran its course, but the disbelieving heart would not, could not let it in, smothering in the end of days. The last moment of consciousness is at hand. The taste of acceptance is on my tongue. Just at that moment a bit of light softens the gloom as if it was not a miracle but the ordinary everydayness of life to see from out of the sepia world a flower, a cup of purple filled with golden sunlight, the entrance to a new life, on the threshold of spring.
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