Rachel Bruce

Snowdrops

I remember you from my crayon days.
Clung about the tree like children to a maypole,
you held green secrets close,
the magic of the changing seasons
folded in your petals.

In the months before my mother died
I anticipated you with five-year-old wonder.
I heard fairy-bells in the Christmas winds,
their ringing approaching through gray haze.
I didn’t know then that fairies are tricksters.

Before spring could come, she was gone,
more fleeting than you.
You bloomed softer that year.
I understood your parting more clearly,
hated that you, at least, would return.

Yesterday I saw you again,
clinging to life against ballistic raindrops.
You glowed against the mud,
gifts laid at winter’s grave.
You redden my eyes still.