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As the rigors of winter fade, a single gold crocus pushes through the mulch of my barren flowerbed and preens in the sun like a rollicking clown—the tenth year of such flowerings that reveals the Creator’s kiss.

Glad are our hearts this morning.

 

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A garden listens, tensed by pulsating rhythms of the underworld, by winter’s bitterness succumbing to spring.

Moist soil engages spidery roots of tulip bulbs.

Fresh shoots, forced from wintry graves, resemble punks’ greased hair.

March winds dampen tentative greens like children forgetting their lines.

Weeks pass.

Spiked blades pattern the garden like players on chessboards.

Hard nubs stretch like infants flailing rubbery limbs.

April suns toast the nubs, urging them to spring from earth’s closet.

Flickers of color expand and soften the petals.

Red-yellow tulips have returned!

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