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I planted snowdrops forty years ago
When I was fourteen; early March they drift
Across the garden, poking through the snow.
I see them springing, and my spirits lift.
I see them blooming sheltered by the hedge;
Some come up in the middle of the grass.
They linger by the fieldstones and allege
That Easter soon will follow Candlemas.
A squall of them blows by the maple tree
Now shorn of all its gold autumnal glory.
The snowdrops thrust themselves through the debris
And hint that spring will come, though dilatory.
These sturdy winter flowers quickly grow,
Their white buds burgeoning through Lenten snow.

—Mary-Patrice Woehling

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