Tulips to be

storm day. rainy day
brown-as-dirt bulbs,
soon to be pressed into the cold ground -
they call beds

months later to be
red
waving
roaring
lions in the wind. but hush now,
the north winds still blow

the sticks which engrave our names, like tombstones
to our
buried alive friends
soon to be resurrected.

our teacher turns us all around
to turn our eager backs to the dormant ones. not for long though

they ought to be beautiful

by
Elsa