by Amanda Kline
Standing on my porch, a cup of hot tea in hand, I watch the sun rise up over the jagged mountain tops, casting scattered shadows across the valley. I watch as the last patches of snow scattered across the grass begin to melt, the sun glinting off the packed snow crystals. The tiny icicles on the trees begin to drip, wetting the patches of soft ground beneath them. When I listen carefully I can hear the soft shuffle of the family of squirrels that lives in the old oak tree, waking from their winter slumber. I take a deep breath, what is that I smell amidst the hint of chamomile from my cup? Turning my head towards the stair, I notice a flower, standing alone at the bottom of the porch. Going to it, I kneel beside it with my cup, sipping the soothing, warm liquid. The dandelion bud struggles to open in the chilled weather, the small gusts of wind sending slight shivers down my back. I hug my cup close, warming whatever part of my body it touches, and caress the small flower. It seems all things in life struggle at some point in time, even the flowers. As long as there is something or someone there to love them, they will make it through. I smile and make my way back into the house, glancing behind me one last time before closing the door.