A garden listens, tensed by pulsating rhythms of the underworld, by winter’s bitterness succumbing to spring.

Moist soil engages spidery roots of tulip bulbs.

Fresh shoots, forced from wintry graves, resemble punks’ greased hair.

March winds dampen tentative greens like children forgetting their lines.

Weeks pass.

Spiked blades pattern the garden like players on chessboards.

Hard nubs stretch like infants flailing rubbery limbs.

April suns toast the nubs, urging them to spring from earth’s closet.

Flickers of color expand and soften the petals.

Red-yellow tulips have returned!

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