A rose..

It’s taken decades, but I’m finally approaching a long-overdue resolution.

Perhaps it will be 2019’s, though there’s every reason to believe it will take more decades to get it off the ground and working.

I resolve to stop falling in love with tulips.

And if I once thought lilacs were little sirens to steer well clear of, too, lest I become one, it is an even more monumental battle to remain cool when I encounter a hyacinth in the petal. “I know nothing of your world! Back up! Don’t stand so close to me!”

You’ll notice I did not mention (*gasp!) dragonflies. I lost that one. We hold hands when no one’s looking.

And, indeed, there’s a dead Monarch butterfly in a kid’s foam cup out in the mud room. What beast would throw away a Monarch of any condition? Hopefully, I shall never reach that point. Let some cold-hearted realist do that deed.

We will not speak of tiny birds. There are too many who nest in my palm. It is hopeless.

But tulips.. o, soft cool layers.. Always cool.  Always soft. I should live without you. You, too, take away my eyes. Eyes and hands and cheeks and lips — and worse, you give me crazy hope that Spring lives forever, somewhere, that all can be well with this world. That all shall be made well. That He shall make all things well. That even now, you are growing — thriving — beside the sunny door of a borrowed tomb.