November’s cold fingers grip,
the bulb planter’s arthritic hands force
down into dirt, down I say, come on—
but the soil resists my insistence,
the goal only twelve scarlet tulips
to remind me—to rewind
birth a breath, that’s all
the brutal year has passed
and gone the shadow,
the only burial
will be bulbs, planted
before early frost.
I follow instructions: right depth,
sun/partial shade; perfect spacing;
ideal temp, under sixty degrees
and well-drained soil.
I know. There are factors. Always factors,
some predictable as rust; others
unpredictable as splitting
that vital seam, the seat of your pants.
Such a hopeful thing, a flower.
Not truly a promise; but a perhaps.
