The crocus answers slowly, "Shivering. Beautiful.
Reminds me that I am a crocus: I grow beneath the snow; I emerge through to greet the sky and reveal to those who seek reminding that spring is coming, warmth is coming--they made it. I feel like a winter flower.
I am thankful that come December I will be where I belong--in the arms of my love New England and her beautifully sparkling arms of snow and tranquillity and power.
Thank you for sending me a winter song.
In my minds' eye I see myself sitting in a cosy fire-lit room in a comfy cushion chair, perhaps a meditation cushion on the carpeted or hardwood floor...faerie lights tucked into every corner of my cosy little room...smiling friendly faces...warmth lapping from the inside of the window, touching the glass that separates it from the licking chill of winter that so excites my straightened spine...the fallen layers of snow fresh against the earth's floor...more flakes twirling down in their elegant, unique dances...flurrying before a lit street lamp glowing in a neat circle...a pale light against the dark night sky, all the more beautiful for it...far off children tugging on snow suits and chasing through the virgin snow...dogs howling to one another...cats gazing down from favourite warm spots...the piping hot chocolate and warm apple cider that awaits us all when our joyful winter play is put on pause...the winter songs permeating the air with gentle, joyful, humoured voices...the tingle of approaching holidays, family, gift-giving...
I love winter. I am a winter flower. My roots are tingling.
I love you!"
The crocus ponders, 'Winter. The time when everything close feels closer. When the sky touches me with flurries on my lashes. The time of winter revelry--ice skates, sleds, snowballs, snow villages. The time of winter peace--new books, old books, remembrance, dreaming, new years, planning, love, song, inner warmth for balance. The time for winter flowers. The time for me.'