The Snowdrop

by Anna Bunston De Bary

Close to the sod
   There can be seen
A thought of God
   In white and green.

Unmarred, unsoiled
   It cleft the clay,
Serene, unspoiled
   It views the day.

It is so holy
And yet so lowly.
   Would you enjoy
      Its grace and dower
   And not destroy
      The living flower?
Then you must, please,
Fall on your knees.

This morning I found Anna Bunston De Bary’s poem that captures the common snowdrop’s charm. The last line makes me smile because I agree the best way to examine and admire these diminutive beauties is on one’s knees. And when photographing them, not only do I kneel but I also assume sideways-lying or almost prone positions on the sidewalk or sod, which occasionally elicit curiosity or concern in passers-by who question if I’m ok. “Oh yes,” I reply, “very ok.” And then I realize how odd I must have looked from a distance. Perhaps I should put up a small sign: Photographer at Work.

Contrary to the natural order of the seasons, in Vancouver this year we experienced snowdrops before snowflakes and were teased by pre-spring weather and early blossoms before winter stormed in this past week. As I write this post, snow has been falling steadily for the past two days, burying all the snowdrops that emerged in January and early February. The snow is deep and heavy so I suspect the flowers have been crushed. After the snow melts, though, I’m going to try to prove myself wrong and will look for resilient survivors.