Still, silent throng.
Mute sentinels,
In white parasols clad.
Misfits of winter, waiting
For the distant hum
Of some diurnal chant:
That Spring is in the air.
Once again this year I made my pilgrimage to visit a little clump of snowdrops growing by the side of the road between Comox and Point Holmes.
It is an insignificant little spot with tufted grass, dead leaves and a piece of broken barbed wire.
Even so, this is the place where my snowdrops lie.
They have been there for as long as I can remember, and each year, while it is still winter, they fulfill their death defying act of revealing their gentle faces in the eye of the cruelest of storms.
I admire their persistence and resilience.
I have often asked myself why is it that these gentle little flowers choose to show their faces at the meanest and leanest time of the year.
I suppose there are many reasons. But for me they are reminders that even in the worst of times there is hope and with hope comes joy.
