Each of the last 19 springs it has been there. The snowdrops. The first bloom of spring. To the side of my neighbor's steps, a few years after her steps have gone, they live on.
They rise from warmed earth and dead leaves, drawing their color from melting snow and emerging life. They make me smile.
Fragile drops of green and white make me smile. And know for certain that "now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this sun."
And these tiny blooms.
