There’s nothing so exciting to a gardener,

As sweeping aside the dead leaves of winter, scraping moss from dormant soil.

To reveal those brave green shoots,
Daring to poke above the earth.

Questing at the air with fragile green tips,

Small as nibbled fingernails, tender as a new tooth.

Peeking into the new year, advancing bravely 

into uncertain frosts, blustering winds, damp and mist hanging thick in the air. 

The vanguards of spring, the scouts of a long-awaited season.

Vibrant, courageous, tiny soldiers

Shooting arrows of new life into a world, bleary-eyed in grey and brown and grey again.

They advance, 

Signalling that at last, winter’s grip loosens.

White fingers slacken on a pale green throat, taking tentative breaths.

A universal language, a sign of

‘We made it.’ 

Spring is here.