Cruel winter winds and snowy storms have almost reached their end, and country roads all topped with slush, an ice and water blend. I see the thawed cold earthen roads all sprouting shoots of green, and garden gates long frozen still, now swinging free, serene. I walk along the country path on which my home is found until I reach an iron gate, much older than my town; the old graveyard now obsolete is filled with old grave stones, and underneath, for sure, a mass of ancient bones. I take this walk once every year on the same date and time, and hoping like today, the sun gives out its shine. My walk continues down a path all covered with old vines that form an arbor lush and green, a scene almost divine. And soon I reach the path’s far end and eyes begin to focus, for on the mass of ground are thousands of new crocus. Their yellow faces shining bright and waving in the breezes, not bothered by the weather cold or insects and their teases. I stand transfixed at the same spot for more than one full hour, adoring all the beauty fixed in this all natural bower. I’m high on Love as I trip home along the old time country path, and thanking Mother Nature much, for all that she has wrath.
majored in journalism at NYU in the 50s; received my masters in business from there and worked for Equitable Life in NY for many years. When retired entered antique business and real estate; retired to Massachusetts and Florida; currently do a lot of volunteer work. Friends forced me into poetry due to much writing I had sent to them over the years. So I joined High On Poems. the end, warren