Every time I see a crocus, I feel sad.
So sweet and blue: it is no-one’s favourite bloom and never the crown jewel of a garden. Florists never include it in their arrangements. Few artists paint it. And rarely has there been a poem or even a limerick to honour this poor little flower.
The only ones who give it any value are those who pluck out its golden heart to serve up in a meal.
And that is all.
No-one else has the time of day for such a small and unimpressive thing.
And yet, to me, it’s so much more extraordinary than any other flower. Even in the icy grip of Winter’s end, when the sky is swollen black and the wind howls, this beautiful little flower emerges from the soil, unafraid and full of hope.
It’s indigo petals appear so delicate, as though they’ll fall apart at the slightest touch.
Yet the mountains love them so much they command the gales to leave them in tact and the rains not to bruise their petals. Frosts refuse to harm them, and when the sun visits it shines upon them gently, lovingly.
To me the crocus is a very special flower because it’s so resilient.
It’s a survivor.
And even the harshest landscape can be transformed into a sea of stars if the crocus grows upon it.
I love you, sweet flower. You’ll always be special to me.