Planting Tulip Bulbs

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Then the snow comes
and covers the ground,
the freshly turned earth
where I'm planting bulbs
six inches deep
in a moist darkness.

The green stem
will rise up
like a corporeal body
and become the crimson tulip—
first a fisted bud
and then an unfurling tongue of petals.

But now, in the fading light
of a November afternoon,
that resurrection—
erection of stem from earth,
blossom from bud—
is only a promise.

A promise. Everything
hinges on that promise.
Today in my garden
I'm planting the future.

As storm clouds gather
I place the heart-shaped bulbs
in the ground thinking
"promise, promise."
The sleet begins.

Of necessity I believe
that next spring
the red flowers
will rise up and be visible.

Copyright by Carolyn Zonailo: www.carolynzonailo.com, 2004