The tulip’s secret is that it’s always a tulip.
A green tuft, twist of stem—sudden shifts
in the gusts of spring.
I push my wheelbarrow through
a rut, hoping to rocket forth,
send stamen and pistil shivering.
Let me erupt from the frozen earth
in wild color. Let me lift crimson arms
to the waiting sky, knowing
that before, when I was bulbous and deeply
earthed and after, when I have guttered
back to the mouths of worms,
I was, I am, I will be
only ever and just
this infinity,
a brightness
coded to flower.
