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.

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Go Out in the Woods, Go Out