Little gifts wrapped
in thin brown papery skins,
nestled in my crusty garden gloves
that hold the shape of my hand
even when they are empty.
I settle you carefully into your cradle of dark earth,
pointy side to the sky,
even though I am sure
Mother Nature knows which way is up.
I rely on the feline mafia
to take care of any thieves.
I will find their decapitated mummified bodies,
flat and hard after a long winter
when the snow recedes.
I will look each day for you.
Then suddenly there you are
purple, yellow, white
while everything else still looks asleep.
Joyfully, I will shout
“The crocuses are up!”
I will tramp across the wet yard
on my way to work,
my heels sinking into the damp earth
because I have to see you.
Touch the earth turning into another cycle.