Notes About The Poem
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WHISPERING HERALDS
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The frost still bites, but slyly now~
its teeth are blunt, its will unsure.
And here they come, the quiet ones,
with petals pressed like secret notes
against the thawing earth.
The crocus, first, all purple nerve,
pokes through the crust of winter’s reign.
A renegade in a world of white,
daring the sky to disagree.
Daffodils shine, a chorus of light,
their trumpets tilting toward April's reluctant sun~
Their sturdy stems, like soldier’s spines,
defy frost while winter still clings to earth,
The hyacinth, drunk on its scent,
heavy-headed but a bit frail~
its roots gripping deep where winter lingers,
pulling life from frozen earth.
And snowdrops? Oh, the quietest spies,
dropping rumors of retreat~
Winter wanes, their bells confess,
though ice still lurks in shadowed eaves.
March’s flowers do not shout.
They whisper, bleed, and bruise,
then rise again~
small fists unclenching
into bloom.
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