Yesterday I thought about crocuses. The Greeks had a story about how the crocus came about. Evidently Krokos was the friend of the god Hermes. When Krokos was accidentally killed during a hunt, Hermes transformed his friend into a flower with a golden stigma. But that is just one story about Krokos,. The more romantic one is that he metamorphosized into a flower after his great love, Smilax died. In more prosaic fashion, the ones that carpet my front lawn are deep purple with golden tongues. Despite the Greek mythology, I read somewhere that the crocus is the symbol of rebirth. Of course that is appropriate since they bloom in late winter to a world that is tired of the cold and longs for Spring. When we see them sturdy in the rain and late winter snow flurries , we consider their stalwartness and regular appearance and are reminded every year of the promise that life goes regardless of winter's sharp edges. They will soon disappear making the way for the hyacinth and tulip and the boldness of daffodils.
In the mythology of plants, Crocus and his fate symbolize an unrequited love , something lost and no longer human. In reality though, the little Crocus has found a far more regal place in the hearts of men as the harbinger of good news and the herald of hope.
