After a winter cuddled in front of the fireplace while anxiously thumbing through well-worn seed catalogs, I started to believe the day would never arrive. In the past week, my beds have gone from a wasteland of Autumn leaves to (yes, still a wasteland of Autumn leaves but with) magical sprouts of every shape and size–mostly because I forgot what bulbs I planted and where.
Each November, I diligently make my way to the 75% off rack at the local big box store for those precious remaining bulbs. I look at the bag of crocuses with a sigh, “Why bother when the squirrels will likely ferret them away.” Yes, I make the purchase anyway. Over the past three years, I have probably planted somewhere around 300 crocus bulbs, yet the lovely squirrels that so entertain my cats make short work of them, sometimes only minutes after I planted. And, each year I promise to immediately follow with chicken wire, which I promptly become to lazy to do.
These sweet flowers will likely be my first and only crocuses of the season, but they bring a promise far more enduring than then the flowers themselves: Spring is soon to follow.