It’s too cold! yells the gusty wind You’ll freeze to death out here, whispers the dusting snow You’ll never survive the nibbling deer, chatters the squirrel. Crocus don’t care. Her bold adolescent sprouts push away last year’s leaves and she reaches up to the glimmering sun; No one’s gonna tell her what she can or can’t do. Watch me, She tells the squirrel, as she kicks away the gathering flakes and gives a green middle finger to the icy wind. And she does it all in a ball gown and heels.
©Vixen Lea 2020