Poetry & Prose

The Tulip

It started with a bulb. 

One that fit snug in my tiny palm 

Grasped by soft fingertips.

Mama helped me scrape open the hole 

Three times deep and cover it 

With chopped leaves

Using delicate hands.

She tells me that tulips bloom in spring but 

Preparation begins in winter. 

Bulbs need twelve weeks to chill, 

Three weeks to sprout.

She speaks of patience.

April greets me with bright yellow 

Petals and a sigh of 

Relief. Kept promises.

In a few months time 

Petals shrink and wither down 

Till the yellow dulls to a sickly state.

Snipping spent blooms

I leave behind sturdy stalks 

Adorned with magical leaves

Soaking rays of sun

To heal their bulbs.

When winter returns, I’ll make a hole again 

And the hardest part won’t be digging but 

Yearning for a spring blossom.