I've seen snowdrops this year, but these are the first crocuses I've come across. They reminded me of a haiku I read recently (even though my crocuses aren't white):
Urban detritusThis is from the blog A Haiku Each Day (this year's March 28 entry), by Abigail M. Parker.
Heaped in a small garden plot
Still – white crocuses.
While trying to remember where I saw the haiku, I came across this poem, also about crocuses. (And I just did some googling to determine that the plural of crocus is crocuses or croci, but also can simply be crocus...).
First CrocusThis poem speaks rightly about the risk of winter's return, but leaves me smiling at the image of crocuses "laughing, tossing their brilliant heads in the bitter air."
by Christine Klocek-Lim
This morning, flowers cracked open
the earth’s brown shell. Spring
leaves spilled everywhere
though winter’s stern hand
could come down again at any moment
to break the delicate yolk
of a new bloom.
The crocus don’t see this as they chatter
beneath a cheerful petal of spring sky.
They ignore the air’s brisk arm
as they peer at their fresh stems, step
on the leftover fragments
of old leaves.
When the night wind twists them to pieces,
they will die like this: laughing,
tossing their brilliant heads
in the bitter air.