FIRST CROCUSES

The Conservatory Garden, East side, 104th-106th Streets, is called one of Central Park’s best-kept secrets. Last Saturday a friend and I walked there and soaked up the wonderfully warming sun.

I was eager to go, in part, because I started my collection of spring 2008 “firsts” several weeks ago—the first snowdrops, the first daffodil and more. More firsts were on my mind. I was not disappointed. There in the midst of the snowdrops I saw them—my first purple crocuses.

Christine Klocek-Lim’s poem, “First Crocus,” which I discovered later, added to the remembered pleasure. In particular, I savored her verbs and the pictures they created.

The flowers did crack open the earth’s brown shell. I can’t claim to have heard the crocuses chatter, ignore, peer and die—laughing and tossing their heads in the bitter air, but Lin does make me wonder what I missed!

First Crocus

This morning, flowers cracked open
the earth’s brown shell. Spring
leaves spilled everywhere
though winter’s stern hand
could come down again at any moment
to break the delicate yolk
of a new bloom.

The crocus don’t see this as they chatter
beneath a cheerful petal of spring sky.
They ignore the air’s brisk arm
as they peer at their fresh stems, step
on the leftover fragments
of old leaves.

When the night wind twists them to pieces,
they will die like this: laughing,
tossing their brilliant heads
in the bitter air.