Your heady perfume fills our home with spring.

Last week, emboldened by March’s arrival, I put into storage several of winter’s coats and toques and boots. I swooned in the late afternoon glow and humid heat of the local greenhouse, its intoxicating aroma of forced spring bulbs – daffodil, crocus, hyacinth.  A subtle pastiche of pastel yellow, pink and purple blossoms, green leaves and stems.

I purchased you, pale purple, already in bloom and full of scent, with two buds hidden like wings tucked tight along your spine. Spring inside if not out, as the next day, another day of snowfall warnings, and frigid temperatures. This in the aftermath of the coldest February in forty years.

But the sun shines higher, stronger now.  And we’ve just begun to reorient our internal clocks to the annual changeover to daylight savings time.

Now you grow visibly by the hour. Miraculous how so much colour, texture, fragrance – how so much life is stored in that small bulb buried in the loamy pot of earth. 

Now you’re leaning over, heavy with promise that, like your ancient mythological namesake, prophesies the coming of spring. Despite a prairie’s caprice.

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