Tulip Ode

 

Poems by Israela

Only time can pry
you open, rain in April,
skirt-wearing 
weather. Standing
one-stalked with
pale legs, the audacity
to be yellow
in March. Each
year, new bulbs
rise through blades 
of grass. In May,
we will wilt—
what makes spring
is the moment
of intersection
between budding
and dying, which
is fleeting 
but certain—
that the Earth 
will tilt 
on its axis 
just so, 
that one kiss
will someday
be our last. It always comes,
I always come,
to wait.

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