The second crocus from the right
appeared with morning splendor, bright.
Its flower, a purple filigree
On pale blue petals three and three.

It rose from winter’s faint remains
And pierced the meadow’s snowy stains.
I saw the field aglow with light
Of gold and lavender and white.

And darkness from the evening letting
Starlight from Orion’s setting
Glitter off each iridescence
Marking winter’s obsolescence.

How proud it was to be so clear
So sure that it outshone its peer
It looked around and saw its glow,
Was casting color on the snow.

But then its pride was interrupted,
A sea of other flowers erupted,
Making it just one of dozens
A sibling in a pack of cousins.

Within a week, I wasn’t sure
Which ones I’d seen the day before.
But I know that it caught my sight,
The second crocus on the right.