A young woman left the isolation of her home and was collecting pine cones from the forest floor.

She followed a path that wound its serpentine course around massive pines.

She was scared, fearful of a sickness that was taking lives.

A heaviness hung in the uneasy air like a dense fog settling on the plant life all around her.

The population was indoors, self quarantined, hiding out as if paranoia had become the new drug.

Fatigued from lack of sleep and stricken with worry, she refused to allow herself to suffer the little death of profound exhaustion.

So she set out for a walk under the inhibited sun.

She knew she had to live life during this pandemic and even with her head in the clouds there was warmth penetrating her cheeks.

Suddenly, her eye caught a glint of yellow. What looked like a reflection from the sun turned into a bulb from a snow crocus.

Bright orange-yellow, with it’s silver-striped leaves, it emerged from the plain dirt at the base of a tree trunk.

It was a singular crocus, alone and with one bulb, glowing like a lamp and as vibrant as the sun.

In the midst of life put on hold, this independent, brave crocus was born, urged-on by life being lived and she was there to see it and feel it.

It was a new and fresh birth during an early spring, an omen that presaged a return to normal life.