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Waiting for the First Crocus was written for my late mother, Mary Hughes Fenwick.Growing up in a very small town on the Canadian prairie (Cereal, Alberta), she told me that winters were bitter, and seemingly endless. In those Northern latitudes, there are less than 8 hours of daylight during the shortest days of the year. During the long dark nights, she said she would pass the time by reading, playing the piano, and dreaming of the thaw to come, when she would venture outside to find the first wild prairie crocuses of the year.Finally, in April, she would find them. Sometimes, the purple flowers would poke out of the remaining snow cover, bringing flashes of colour to the monochromatic landscape, sure signs that spring had finally arrived.During the first section of the piece, you might imagine young Mary sitting close to the stove on a cold evening, wondering if winter will ever end. She remembers the feeling of casting off her heavy sweater and running outside to hear the welcome sounds of water running and robins chirping, see the ground squirrels scurry, and to find patches of crocus flowers. The memory fades, and she looks out the window to see that snow is falling, again.