Too Early for Night
I've counted seven days of rain. Are the halcyon days
gone south of the equator along with the sun? I know all
about December 21st, the winter solstice, but I'm not ready
for dusk, closure of the day. I want daffodils not rattling seeds
on gray stalks or purpling Swiss chard. There's been no deep
cold; I'll buy bone meal half price. Planting will be my poem,
become my metaphor for faith, the ice that will glide me over
January, February, even though I've read the statistics on moles
who feast on tulips. April will burst with narcissus, borders
of collars, flatcups, tazettas. March can be an oriental carpet
of crocus: Goldilocks, Lady Killer, Little Dorrit, Peter Pan.
I'll fax White Flower Farms - 10 dozen double-nosed bulbs
guaranteed to perform the first year - then line the front walk
with tulips chosen for their names: Johann Strauss, Elizabeth
Arden, General Eisenhower. In July, there will be liliums, pure
and white Casa Blanca flanking Strawberry Shortcake blushing
to crimson. To float me through August and its heat, I'll layer
day lilies to jewel a path in pearl, gold, bronze, copper, and ruby.