by Janet Grace Riehl
I offer her the first crocus.
Purple in a red-orange vase.
“That was Mom’s,” she said.
Cousin Cynthia showed me how to spot it.
An amphora crested with spring.
She draws closer to inspect it.
Tips it up to drink the water.
She starts to nibble the leaves and blossoms.
Flowers, Mom. To look at.
But, what if essence of crocus
surging through her bloodstream
is exactly what she needs?