Of course the crocus would choose that day to bloom
so that now, years later, when they shove their purple petals
beaming into the early spring sunshine
I remember coming home in my suit that drizzly day

half scraping my shoes on each stair to the front door,
then as my father unlocked the door with one hand gently resting on my shoulder

I’m glancing into the front bed and watching them
peeking out of tufts of greenery,
playfully nodding off raindrops.

So every spring when they the tulips and daffodils push their leaves through the soil
I know
soon the crocus will shoot up and bloom

- before the others have a chance -

and cast out saccharine smiles
but I know,
I remember viewing that purple-lipped grin;
so cold and unnatural.

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