In Kazakhstan, as the snow begins to thaw in March, one can find snowdrops peaking out from the covers of the cold winter. The frigid evenings become not so frigid and the land says “Rise” to the little snowdrops.
And a small trickle of melt becomes a stream and then becomes a torrent, cascading down the hills. One snowdrop is joined by another, then a field emerges and other flowers spring forth too.
I can feel the heat of Spring in the bodies and words of friends in Chisinau.
We had a Cold War, and they say that it’s over now. But I can still feel the cold, dark winter – the cold, heavy blanket of snow.
Are you my snowdrop?