Sun hovers closely, almost obnoxiously over the seemingly bashful plants. The tiny but glorious sprouts take cover in the decay.
Sun: Wake up and rise to the season! Slither your way through the damp of dead leaves and bloom!
Crocus Bulb: I will not.
Sun: But the bees are winter-weary and waiting. The old maple is budding in neon green. Do you not hear the serenade of songbirds? The rain is barely a sprinkle. I promise.
Crocus Bulb: Talk what you please of future spring and sun-warm’d sweet tomorrow. I will remain here in earth’s embrace.
Sun: I know your tender shoots have poked the soil. The scent of your saffron has teased the wind. You are a such a tenacious little tuber. What is it you wait for?
Crocus Bulb: I wait to be seen.
Sun nods and slips slowly into the cumulus.
Sanaa is the lovely host over at
We are writing “Prosery” that includes the line, “Talk what you please of future spring and sun-warm’d sweet tomorrow.” – from the poem A Daughter of Eve by Christina Rossetti.
mishunderstood 