There is a tremor within me,
a shiver beneath my skin—
the kind you feel in the morning air,
when the day is too quiet
for you to have started anything.

My eyes are drawn toward a tulip,
its colors red and ready—
while mine are blurred and blue.
It stands, its back to the breeze,
petals brushing against the air,
soft as silk, soft as a cloud—
if only I could learn how
to keep in place so simply.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds—
or maybe I do, but it’s easier
to pretend, to write the answer
on a piece of paper, throw it away—
make a promise never to read it again.

Each mood I have as of late
either turns to red or blue,
a streak of color against the morning light,
a quiet strength I long to mirror—
to have once again.

Maybe the tulip knows the secret,
could teach me how to bloom
and live again, even as the ground
stirs beneath me.