Snowdrop Poetry Novels & Stories

"Would you like to take a walk in the garden? The greenhouse is nice, but the outdoor paths are open to us today." "I’d love to," I said, closing my book. We walked out into the sun-drenched gardens. The air was crisp, but the sun was warm on my shoulders. As we walked, Darian began to talk about Southern poetry. "In the South, we believe that words have their own scent," he explained as we passed a row of blooming lilies. "We have poets who spend their entire lives trying to capture the feeling of the first rain after a drought. They use a structure called 'The Golden Verse'. It’s patterned, like a heartbeat."

Now I know she is still drunk. "While you are it, make sure not to drown." I wave her request off opening the door wider. "Please." One word that has the ability to wreck me. Please. "Della." "Crescent please. I am not sure I would be able to make it through without drowning." Her eyes burn with something, something darker that is not lust. Her offer as cynical as it sounds, it makes my heart throb.

For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. - William Wordsworth

And why were they bringing it up now? "I... I remember that poem," I replied cautiously, my mind racing with possibilities. I remember it had won first place, and I did not even get to enjoy winning because mom thought writing poems was a distraction that was not even worth it. I never got the prize. “Why is Snuggle interested in my poem?” Cupid's voice remained composed on the other end. "Your poem caught our attention due to its profound message and impact. It resonates with something we have in mind."

The Moon Goddess did not appear again since as She said that was Her last, even so, they still have the seed of moonlight that She left them that they will cultivate and pass on to those who will be next in their blood. Several rainy seasons and summers passed; the weeks, months, and years flew fast, the little seed has finally become a fruit and its grace to the Cohens is a unique ability that will be theirs. And as a tribute to their mother who gave them, the sacred moonlight that resides in them, they called it... "Moon Drip".

"Good fortune has been given, Goldenrod" Red Catchfly Forest, Myrtle, 1902 "Run! the sun is going down, the gun reaches for the crown. Two were shattered, cowardness scattered." "A rose I held, as it upheld my heart. Dear, we are being reduced everyone is fleeing." "The fondness needs to be protected My dearest, we are affected. Near the Hemlock approach, they're not in their sincerest." "Here came a Butterfly weed,

me, has spied I move away, from where I hide, Shhhhhh be quiet, My legs are heavy, I slowly stepped, you escorted, up I crept tears I wish, that I had wept, I move my hand, away are swept, no way for me to leave, get out, they'd never hear me scream & shout trudging on with wary doubt, I bite my lip, I moan & pout, in every step, as I grow brave, climbing up, a darkened grave, with every step, my soul to save, Very dramatic poet, emmmm thanks, read on, I reach the top in my suspense, ahead I say, in my defense, sorry if you're feeling tense, It's alright, I open up the door ahead, filling me & you with dread, dragging knuckles, telluric bed, I look, in horror, shrilling, ....shrieking a glow

It's been written to death. "No, June is immortal," cried Emily suddenly, a mutinous sparkle replacing the strained look in her eyes. She was not going to let Mr Carpenter have it all his own way. But Mr Carpenter had tossed June aside without reading a line of it. "'I weary of the hungry world'--what do you know of the hungry world?--you in your New Moon seclusion of old trees and old maids--but it is hungry. Ode to Winter--the seasons are a sort of disease all young poets must have, it seems--ha! 'Spring will not forget'--that's a good line--the only good line in it. H'm'm--Wanderings--

However, what Shane said next made everyone feel embarrassed. "I've read about Snowdrops in historical records. This one is the real one." Shane picked up Millie's Snowdrop and declared confidently, "This is the real Snowdrop! I guarantee it! "Snowdrops resemble a white rose in appearance. They have a thick stem and a unique color. As for Joanna's gift…" Shane chuckled again. "That one is just an ordinary herb." Shane's hearty voice echoed in everyone's ears. They were at a loss for words at this moment.

The poem went this way, Do not stand at my grave and weep, I am not there; I did not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints on snow. I am the sun on ripened grain, I am the gentle autumn rain. When you awaken in the morning's hush, I am the swift uprising rush Oh quiet birds in circled flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there; I did not die.