I have all of two of these clusters in my garden. One in the front and one in the back. With a snow flurry/hail storm making its way down from Bogus Basin (the ski hill), the temp is too low for these little guys to open up. But I know they are there. I saw them open the other day. With my own eyes. I did, too! Promise. Now, as I sit here I hear hail pounding the skylights and no doubt beating the daylights out of those silky little crocus petals. Well, it IS the first of March. What was I thinking?

And today’s offering of poetry.

A Winter Eden, by Robert Frost

A winter garden in an alder swamp,
Where conies now come out to sun and romp,
As near a paradise as it can be
And not melt snow or start a dormant tree.

It lifts existence on a plane of snow
One level higher than the earth below,
One level nearer heaven overhead,
And last year’s berries shining scarlet red.

It lifts a gaunt luxuriating beast
Where he can stretch and hold his highest feast
On some wild apple tree’s young tender bark,
What well may prove the year’s high girdle mark.

So near to paradise all pairing ends:
Here loveless birds now flock as winter friends,
Content with bud-inspecting. They presume
to say which buds are leaf and which are bloom.

A feather-hammer gives a double knock.
This Eden day is done at two o’clock.
An hour of winter day might seem too short
To make it worth life’s while to wake and sport.