Snowdrops

An unmarked path at the park 

took you into a little enclosure

as you searched for spring in January.

Wet twigs, dark clouds

lined the way, some daffodil bulbs

already speared the soil.

Not what you sought, though still

you pointed in greeting at each uprising,

these small rebellions, winter-born.

You saw them a foot further,

almost hidden: a silvery sheen coalescing

into sprays of pure white.

A smile swam over your face,

splashing joy, your old eyes rippled

with the buoyancy of boyhood. 

Not a flag of surrender, you said,

but a white dove returning,

or the frost of fear, desiring to melt.