He came in the evening with a plastic bag full of tulips. Exclaiming and joyful
I filled all the vases I have with armfuls of pointed buds.
Extravagantly I scatter lavish bunches all around the messy house. A jugful sits atop the piano casting shapely shadows onto the white wall.
A humbug striped jug hunches on the low table, white rimmed heads lolling and quivering as the children thunder by – mind my tulips joining the other regular cries of cottonwooling, carefulnow motherhood.
In the artificial warmth the petals splay – revealing speckled throats -panting – stamen trembling.
Tonight you’ve gone up to bed early, your book tucked under a purposeful arm and left me stranded on the sofa, idling, delaying, looking at my flowers preening under harsh fluorescent light.
Tulips always make me think of Sylvia. I say as much to you as I peel off my clothes.
About her – alone- in her room with the scarlet flame of her tulips. And the despair.
Too late now you say, frowning abstractedly, not really listening, turning your page.
Mutinous at the window I think, never too late for love – scowling into the night rubbing my thumb with a squeak against the wet glass.
Never too late. Never wasted.
and see it, wavering out into the night as
A drunken, laden bumble bee – gold dusted- drowsy.
Heavy with purpose, tracing an elliptical path into the sodium saturated sky.
Never too late.