Crocus

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

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