Crocus: a meditation poem of hope

 

Crocus

Once, long ago,

during a winter more grey within

than cold without,

when the house was filled

with seeming endless

sadness, and anger,

and emptiness,

I came down one morning

to a chilled and silent kitchen

to discover that outside,

a crocus had bloomed overnight,

under the old cherry tree,

in a place none had ever bloomed before.

How had it come there on that day,

in that place?

Bird carried, wind blown,

or old planting stirred anew?

But, why wonder at its coming?

All it asked of me

was to be seen.

I stood, still,

empty kettle in hand,

staring into the grey garden,

now sunlit, with the yellow frail petals

of an unexpected 

and unlooked for flower.

It lasted just long enough

for us to hear,

behind the song of sorrow

we were singing in that house then,

a note of hope, a sound of Spring,

not now, but coming.

I knew then, and for evermore,

that at the right time, in the right place,

looked at in the right way,

even a tiny yellow crocus

can be a word from the Word.

So today I know that 

when sadness sings her song

around my roots,

it is ok, 

it is beautiful,

it is necessary,

but also it is an invitation

to wait and watch

for the yellow crocus

to bloom again,

as it always will,

announcing angel like,

the nearness of spirit's Spring,

not now, perhaps,

but always coming.

(Pic not mine; found unattributed on the web)