The tulips grew
under a patch of shade,
half warmed by the sun
yet still, protected
flowers used to mean
stuffed noses and watery
eyes. I never looked at
one through a clear lens
we would sit out in
the garden, the gentle
buzzing of heat, electricity
in the air. The oncoming
storm
now, roses are red
beasts that bite like
a vampire, drawing
blood into the stifled,
stagnant earth
I wait for frosts
that freeze,
turning green grass
to the white blades
of winter
the unforgiving morning
chill, robins perched on
iron railings that snap
like a steel rod,
submerged in
liquid nitrogen
I am callous and
cruel. I do not look
at the world in
wonder. I am
distant and dull
but I can't help but think
of the tulips, how they
are half hidden in
darkness, yet still
grow