First sprouts of new season crocus
find their way through ice crystaled soil

from winter’s last exhalation on the loam.
In one last stand of frigid breath tiny purple

buds on thin stalks reach to the glow of
warmth, life promised. We slip in through

a tiny crack. A murmuration beckons,
miniscule as the opening. Fragile as the

frost we blossom fearless in His espousal,
His avowal of spring awaits.

.
.
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Author’s Note:

We walk on slippery ground. We hear voices calling to us, but which one to choose? Ego must stand aside, make room for spring. We pass through darkness, but there is light, always. We enter, fragile, easily broken. But His warmth is promised. Blessings.