The First Bloom

The air was still crisp, the ground soft beneath my boots as I walked through a familiar meadow. Winter’s grip had not fully released, but the world seemed to hold its breath for what was to come.

There, amidst the pale remnants of frost, I saw it—a single crocus pushing through the soil, its petals a vibrant splash of purple against the muted tones of winter.

As I knelt to admire its fragile beauty, an old gardener appeared, a trowel in hand. “The first bloom,” he said, his voice carrying both reverence and joy.

“It’s just one flower,” I replied, still marveling at its boldness.

“Ah, but it’s the herald,” he said with a knowing smile. “The earth stirs beneath our feet, ready to awaken. This little one reminds us that even the harshest winters cannot stop life’s return.”

His words stayed with me as I walked on, the crocus a promise of warmth and renewal.