Begging her to pull the curtains open, she heard their tiny pleas. The crocus were awake, it was their tiny voices, make no mistake.
She was busy giving all her twenty-one dolls, tea. They had plenty and she was done. The sun shone so bright on her world still covered in white. As she opened a curtain, she closed her eyes tight.
She rose on her little painted toes and on the winter scene she did press her nose.
She spoke to her room, and the unmade bed. She said, “How delicate. How Pretty. How sweet of them, really.”
Among patches of snow, snatches of crocus did grow. The earth drew little top hats as their sainted heads did show.
“What an early scene, you seem. You let the green grass poke through. If you please, what praise I do deem.”
“I heard your whispers,” she said, as she sat on her knees, brushing the snow from their hats.
“How delicate. How Pretty. How sweet of you, really.”
