The Early Crocus

I was lucky enough to have this one published couple of years back...don't know if anyone here can relate to a poem about a fragile-looking little flower that only blooms when the spring thaw begins in England. A crocus, like a snowdrop, is for me the bravest of flowers... The Early Crocus Rain beats down with childish fists Hurling itself headlong as if possessed Slapping the ground with emphatic ire. The temper tantrum lasts for days And trees bow down before the rain While cowering earth absorbs like brittle sponge And tiny stones kick up heels in dance Defiantly mocking the savage display But, oh, the mighty rain’s seething anger Is nothing, compared with that of a single flower That explodes from the sodden loam In furious fiery outrage Provoked by the constant battering She shakes off the last vestige of sleep Maddened in the shadows of gloomy cloud The awakened bud sheds all hope for peace Incensed by this cascading torrent, Which she sees as a personal assault, She lifts her brow and with scornful glare Gives vent to her indignation So furiously does crocus explode from the stem, Impatiently straining her head to see, That in glorious pyrotechnic colour She boils to the surface, and on into wintry day