The Brutal Work of Tulips
January ground takes no pity on latecomers,
the rushed, the dull shovel. Newly cleared
of bindweed and privet, dense with old roots
and stones, the clotted clay gives little
to the bulb planter, wrenched hands and shoulders
that should’ve worked this land last fall.
Rock the blade, press your whole weight
into your unforgiving mother. The bulbs
oniony in paper jackets, penile ends reaching
and greeny. The damp of Amsterdam canals,
waterways that would flood the fields
if not for windmills spinning and pumping,
keeping the sea at bay.
Carve a cradle for Golden Apeldoorns,
Antoinette Bouquets. Dropped in, pennies
in a fountain, good black dirt tamped
into poor. O the day at Keukenhof,
just shy of tulip season, a sealike chill,
the hyacinth horizon scented large
and deep as centuries.
Whatever is snowbound and icy
at the bone raptures your fingertips.
Spring’s yolked suns overflow crimson
cups. Tall as the March lion, they catch
our wished and hoped for, our wintry fears.
Whatever the cost, dig down into
your heavenly reward: the unquenchable,
contrary earth.
Poet, playwright, essayist, and editor, LINDA PARSONS is the poetry editor for Madville Publishing and the copy editor for Chapter 16, the literary website of Humanities Tennessee. Read more.