After winter, when seeds have sat in silence, waiting, something stirs—
Quiet, unseen, beneath the soil it’s not about rushing the bloom, but trusting the thaw.
Life, like a flower doesn’t force its way out of the cold—it listens, it senses, it softens.
Becoming spring in our hearts is not a task but a surrender.
The crocus doesn’t question whether it’s worthy to bloom, it simply does, pushing through frost as if to say, “Here I am, even after all that.”
And maybe we do the same, unfolding slowly, shyly, with color returning to places we thought had forgotten it.
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