Crocuses Are Promises
A furled ten dollar bill nests deep in the pocket
of a winter coat that feels like the down
has surrendered to the years and is no longer up
to the task.
I slush my way through the night’s anemic
snowfall, frustrated,
“Either do it or don't,” I scold the clouds.
My quest is coffee.
I pass a riot of flowers first.
Two tables full. Roses, orchids,
fancy flowering plants whose names I don’t know.
I sigh, wishing the ten bucks would allow for
stimulation and beauty.
A flash of purple stops me short.
It pokes out from unfriendly, dry dirt as I pluck
it from the high-rent section.
“A crocus!” I exclaim to no one.
Small, deep purple petals, with leaves like proud
blades of fresh new grass.
Optimistic, feisty, foolish flowers.
What they lack in grace, they’ve got in guts.
Refusing to bow to calendar or climate,
they push through the harsh, resisting soil singing,
“Don’t worry about me. I take my chances.
Anyway, this winter business is so old, don’t you think?”
Oh, God. Caffeine or crocuses?
Coffee is good for the quick kick in the ass, but
it never lasts.
Those scrappy buds are a different kick.
“The dreadful winter will end,” they swear.
You decide. Yearn for spring on your terms.
Push past your darkness. Inhale
the light and air and the promise
of boundless sky.”
“Just go ahead and buy me.
It’s cold out here!”
