living for crocuses

One of my profs calls me a "super student." I wish I got to wear a cape and fly, too. Stress is my sunshine and worry my kryptonite, and academia is a sickening balance of the two. A blank white poster board reclines on the floor next to King Bidgood's in the Bathtub, a lesson plan gapes unfinished from the monitor on my desktop, and a glossy mountain thirty picture books tall graces my bed. There is a quiz waiting in the wings, biding its time on my thumb drive, as well as a journal entry that hasn't crept out from the recesses of my mind quite yet.

All due early next week.

I am living for the crocuses. I know enough about the leonine madness some dare to call spring in Chicago to not worship spring break, but I am ready to see the bold green fingers laugh at the snow and the cold and come up, quietly smiling at the world, not audacious like the fanfare of daffodils or loud like sirens of tulips. They are the first, the brave, and the beautiful.

I am living for the crocuses because I want to be one. Despite the mounds of suffocating snow pressing against me, I feel the warm sunlight above. It urges me on through the malicious elements and blustery days into a world of sunlight and hope of a verdant summer.

My petals are purple.