I was sitting in the reading chair;
you were watching the rain racing
down the glass of the old window,
the one that let in all of winter’s cold,
the one with chipped paint around the edges
and bubbled splinters underneath.
The light was dim, and you asked me
when winter would be over.
I told you about the groundhog
and the shadow, and you said
you didn’t believe it and that Spring would arrive
just tomorrow, in bursts of silent,
sprouting tulips.
Tulips sing the saddest song;
there is hardly a flower more beautiful, yet just at their peak,
they droop into the sorrow of dying,
heads hung heavy and low towards the dirt,
petals browning, then falling, then altogether
gone—nothing but a stem and a few powdery stamen.
No comments:
Post a Comment