Tulips break my heart each spring.
No more boutonnieres for me.
No more twining vines embroidered
on my sleeve, no blossoms in my hair,
no corsage for my breast, no soft
roses spilling from my jaunty cap,
heartless beauties that they be.
No vase to grace the dinner table this eve.
No flowering bulbs or budding trees
arriving too early, even as winter leaves,
and admonished to wait, to hesitate to leaf,
even as I acknowledge the newly green,
it’s gone, enticed by a summer dream,
bent by snow and ice, scented
no longer, loveliness lost in memory.
Tulips break my heart.
