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| art by Baslee Troutman |
Before you died,
you planted red tulips in the front yard
You never asked us first if we wanted red tulips
but I didn’t mind because they were beautiful
After you died,
the tulips still bloomed each spring,
pushing up through the snow and hard earth,
rising from the dead
It seemed to me somehow metaphorical
Spiritually significant
Then the rabbits ate the red petals,
leaving only headless stick-like green bodies
and the voles and squirrels ate the wintering bulbs
Now we have no tulips
I’m not sure what the metaphor is supposed to be
but I see you looking down,
shaking your head,
laughing.
