Crocus

We have had an unusually warm fall this year.  I still have herbs and my zinnias are still blooming.  We are having trouble finding a spot for our Halloween skeletons and gravestones.  But no matter how much we rejoice in the green, we know that fall is coming.  This is a poem I wrote this time last year for a creative writing class I took.  This is how I look at fall.

Crocus

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 spring.

Touch the earth turning into another cycle.

Starting again.