It's Still Life

The First Crocus (Or: How to Philosophise a Flower)

The Old Woman kneels in the still-cold soil,
points to a brave spear of yellow
poking through frost and forgotten leaves,
“Look,” she whispers.
“Spring.”

The cat pads over,
sniffs delicately …
then draws back as if offended by hope.

“Hmm.
A small, yellow invader.
Uninvited.
Asserting itself.”

She smiles.
“It’s a flower, not a rival.”

“Everything that grows without my permission
is a rival,” he corrects.
“But fine.
Explain its purpose.”

“Beauty.
Joy.
A promise of warmth.”

He flicks his tail.
“I provide beauty.
I bring joy,
when I allow it.
And I am already warm.

This ‘spring’ is redundant.”

He sits,
wrapping his tail around his toes,
and gazes at the crocus
as if it’s a puzzle he hasn’t decided
whether to solve or swat.

“Still,” he murmurs, almost to himself,
“it is rather… bright.
And it came back all on its own.
That’s…
moderately impressive.”

Then he leans forward
and gently,
ever so gently,
boops the blossom with his nose —
before pretending he was just
checking for bees.