Where I live in Utah at this time of year,
a sure turning point for me, perceptually,
from winter to spring,
is when the Crocus bloom.
I love their delicateness and tenderness,
I also love their toughness.
They arise through last years’ dead material.
The crocus are first, as if scouting the way of return.
Not the more robust daffodils and tulips.
Not the plethora of green that will return to the grass.
Not the flowering or leafing of of fruit trees.
That we all could be
so brave and beautiful and resilient.
Even if just for the three weeks of spring
when Crocus lead the way.