I poke the yellow tulip
With the tip of my forefinger
The soft silent bell
Ringing loudly inside me
A drip of dew dripping out
From its center,
My finger as curious as
Any bee’s, seeking
The secret nectar
From far down inside
A hurried in and out
As sunset threatens
To close the flower
Around me
And keep us both contained
Through the cold, chill night,
And I wonder what
It smells like if indeed
It has a smell at all,
Or tastes like
As I press my face into it
My lips against its lips,
Then my tongue in its mouth,
It shuddering almost as much
As I shudder, this precious
Bit of life poking at me
Out of the rich brown loam,
This testimony to rebirth,
That fills my mouth, my lungs
My heart, this one lick
Of rising spring that flows
Over me, inside me, through me,
Giving rebirth there, too
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