Snowdrops

We’ve waited long enough
in this deep frozen winter,
more white than green or brown.
By degrees, our spirits dropped,
descending into deeply double figures,
below the point
at which we measure much at all.
It all seems pointless.

Dark and long,
the nights are never-ending;
cold and short,
the days add little comfort.
Hard and lifeless,
the ground is like a grave.

And then, by stealth,
the mercury creeps upwards,
touching above zero.
The sky is now less grey
the cloud a little higher
the light a soft shade brighter.

The ground gives way
a fraction; the grass,
and green, emerges,
setting the scene
for battalions
of tiny shoots - and then they come:
the magic, maiden flowers,
silent heralds of renewal.

But listen to this silence.
It is an exclamation.
Choir upon choir
of snowdrops,
singing.

In celebration.