When trees have lost remembrance of the leaves that spring bequeaths to summer, autumn weaves and loosens mournfully — this dirge, to whom does it belong — who treads the hidden loom? When peaks are overwhelmed with snow and ice, and clouds with crepe bedeck and shroud the skies — nor any sun or moon or star, it seems, can wedge a path of light through such black dreams — All motion cold, and dead all traces thereof: What sudden shock below, or spark above, starts torrents raging down till rivers surge — that aid the first small crocus to emerge? The earth will turn and spin and fairly soar, that couldn't move a tortoise-foot before — and planets permeate the atmosphere till misery depart and mystery clear! — Who gave it the endurance so to brave such elements? — shove winter down a grave? — and then lead on again the universe? ~Alfred Kreymborg from "Crocus"
To be sure, it feels wintry enough still: but often in the very early spring it feels like that. Two thousand years are only a day or two by this [God’s] scale. A man really ought to say, ‘The Resurrection happened two thousand years ago’ in the same spirit in which he says, ‘I saw a crocus yesterday.’ Because we know what is coming behind the crocus. The spring comes slowly down this way; but the great thing is that the corner has been turned. . . It remains with us to follow or not, to die in this winter, or to go on into that spring and that summer.
~C.S. Lewis from God in the Dock
Whether late winter or autumn
the ground yields unexpected crocus,
surprising even to the observant.
Hidden beneath the surface,
their incubation readily triggered
by advancing or retreating light from above.
Waiting with temerity,
to be called forth from earthly grime
and granted reprieve from indefinite interment.
A luminous gift of hope and beauty
borne from a humble bulb
adorned with dirt.
Summoned, the harbinger rises
from sleeping dormant ground in February
or spent topsoil, exhausted by October.
These bold blossoms do not pause
for snow and ice nor hesitate to pierce through
a musty carpet of fallen leaves.
They break free to surge skyward
cloaked in tightly bound brilliance,
deployed against the darkness.
Slowly unfurling, the petals peel to reveal golden crowns,
royally renouncing the chill of winter’s beginning and end,
staying brazenly alive when little else is.
In the end, they wilt, deeply bruised purple
a reflection of Light made manifest;
returning defeated, inglorious, fallen, to dust.
Yet like the Sun, we know
they will rise yet again.
