Planting Tulips
Urged on by coming darkness, shorter days,
we reenact old rites, kneel as supplicants
on the cold ground of November, plant
our small intentions which will in time
.
become silken flame, ruffled apricot,
a parrot-fringe of green and yellow as tulip bulbs
settle on their satin haunches. The moon’s tug
on the swaying hammock of ocean is no less
.
than the tides that suck at earth as we wait
for winter to lower her iron gate. The bulb,
like the blooded eye of the cold-slowed lizard
will keep vigil throughout the long night as will
.
the ruby, firefly, your own four-winged heart—
all forged in a collusion of stars, all adepts of that light.