Nilla — the Snowdrop

 

Before the ground softened,
before the days agreed to stay,
Nilla was already there.

 

She did not push the soil away.
She did not wait for warmth.

 

The ground was still tight.
Cold held close to the surface.
Light arrived briefly
and left again.

 

Nilla rested low,
her white turned downward,
not to hide,
but because that was how she grew.

 

Around her,
nothing had begun.

 

Grass stayed folded.
Stems slept.
The air did not linger.

 

Nilla did not look for color.
She did not dream of it.

 

She held what she was.

 

Some mornings, frost returned.
Some afternoons, the cold loosened slightly.
Then tightened again.

 

She did not turn.

Her stem held.

 

She did not brighten the day.
She did not change the ground.

 

But she was there.

 

One morning,
as light rested briefly and moved on,
a butterfly passed.

 

She did not pause.
She did not circle back.

 

Color settled.

 

It did not rush.
It did not spread far.

 

It only settled.

 

White softened into itself.
Green steadied at her stem.
The ground nearby looked less tight,
though it was still cold.

 

A pale scent held close to the ground.

 

Nilla felt no change.
No warmth followed.

 

Nothing had turned yet.

 

The light met her again the next day.

The frost thinned around her edge.

 

Later, others would come.
Later, the ground would loosen.
Later, the days would hold longer.

 

Nilla did not wait for that.

 

She remained as she had,
complete without display.

 

Spring had not arrived.

 

But it had begun.