Because I can’t go far, I study what is near. An early crocus, shut up against the cold opens in an hour in water on my table its petals bent right back, astonishingly flat, a golden fan. Its pistil stands up tall, calling for a bee, pollen laden, which is sound asleep. When I switch off the light, hope gone, it shuts as tight. Wonderfully furled, it tucks itself right in and opens out again when syrup streams trembling, from the spoon onto my porridge. I watch a pair of collared doves perched on the feeder roof. They nod and peer and twist as they prepare to turn around and fly, squeezing in to shelter and to feast. “Which one will venture first?” I ask and laugh when I’m proved wrong. Don’t complain, I tell myself at every ache and pain. Think each one’s an inkling that my shell is cracking preparing for the moment of release. Inside my soul is pecking yearning to be free but each uneasy day’s a chance for it to grow ensuring I’m more ready for a rich eternity.