Crocus

How early
sprang
that lavender crocus
by the front gate,
oblivious to
the calendar,
to the thermometer,
the weather man,
poking up its fragile head,
a reminder that living is growing.

And how coldly
came
the frost,
that one chilly morning
we found the flower's head
not bowed
but broken,
not art, but vegetation,
a reminder that living is dying.

A shame, we said,
about that frost,
about that flower's timing,
if it had appeared some other
while,
some other
where,
a million choruses of ifs

as if blooming were not living,

as if we were not
lucky
that those blooms
came early.

by,  Dr. Lana Whitehead

* Nina, Here's the poem I wrote after Eric died.

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