Snowdrops
Before the thaw has found its way,
Before the skies remember May,
A whisper stirs beneath the snow—
A bloom the brave and few might know.
Not crocus bold nor daffodil,
But quiet strength and tempered will,
The snowdrop rises, slight and pale,
With trembling grace that does not fail.
She does not wait for warmth or cheer,
She meets the frost and pushes near,
A lantern in the coldest gloom,
A herald born of winter’s womb.
So small she bends with breath or breeze,
Yet holds her ground with rooted ease.
No trumpet call, no grand parade—
Just courage in a green-white blade.
And those who kneel to meet her there
Will find a lesson, soft and rare:
That sometimes power wears a face
Of gentleness, and quiet grace.
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