Crocuses

They were purple, streaked with white,
and sunny yellow in the middle.
These weren’t like the tender green shoots I’ve seen poking out of the ground
as the winter begins to fade into spring.
Nothing tentative about them.
No, these were the real thing:
the first crocuses, the true harbinger of spring:
smiling at me this afternoon as I left the church.
So of course I said a shehechiyanu
as I always do
when I see crocuses blooming for the first time each season.

There’s something defiant about a crocus,
Like a revolutionary petunia,
it bursts through the earth just after the thaw,
blooming for my deserving eyes.
Sometimes it comes up through the snow
Like a visual non-sequitor,
a little burst of color surrounded by frozen white:
soft and small, but in-your-face just the same.
“You can’t stick around here any more,” it calls out to winter.
“You’re not welcome; this is MY world, now.”

Crocuses remind me of my mother,
even though they were not her favorite flower.
Actually, she liked mums best.
Not the spider ones,
the small ones that come many buds to a spray;
No, she liked the big pom-pom ones,
the ones that almost don’t look like real flowers,
and that so often find themselves in funeral arrangements.
She also liked lilies, the sweet-scented ones,
And roses.
Funny that her Hebrew name, Shoshanna,
translates variously as either “lily” or “rose”.
I wonder if she knew that when she picked it.

That first March crocus arrives just before my Mother’s yahrzeit.
Perhaps it is her way of saying hello,
And my little prayer is my “hello” back.

3/7/06