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The Maiden of February
A poem on my favourite flower, nature’s optimist: the snowdrop
As winter turns towards spring here in the UK, I’ve loved teaching my toddler daughter how to spot snowdrops and seeing her joy when she finds some. They’ve always struck me as brave and hopeful flowers, sticking out their delicate-looking heads when others are still too scared to go outside. As it turns out, they contain a kind of anti-freeze that makes them resistant to frost and can be used to tell the weather, since they close their heads to avoid the worst of winter. Their medicinal properties have been linked with treating Alzheimers. Associated Brigid, the Irish saint/goddess of fertility, healing and poetry, they have long been icons of purity, hope and positive change, all of which they embody through their combination of grace and hardiness. I’m always amazed by the unlikely patches of ground that they can suddenly erupt from, such as a break in the pavement where a lampost has grown like an urban ash tree for them to shelter beneath. These little jewels deserve a poem — the title of this one uses their folkname.
The Maiden of February
All they need is a patch of grass
or mulch or a break in the pavement
to raise their gentle, hopeful heads.
