A week ago, the tulips were lined up in a row.
Today I awoke and they were covered in snow.
I worked really hard covering them, the best that I could.
If I knew two days ago, I would have covered them real good.
The snow came down fast, while I slept last night.
For late in April, this is a very rare sight.
Usually, the sun is shining and everything is not white.
Were sitting on the porch enjoying the fresh air, such a delight.
This year with the snow on the ground.
There seems like there are no tulips or flowers to be found.
Will the snowmelt and my tulips go away?
Will I wake to sunshine and the flowers linger and sway?
I guess I am rather lucky as it appears tonight.
That the tulips look healthy, quite a beautiful sight
Nothing beats the beauty of flowers in Spring.
Nothing other than listening to small children sing.
As I listen to my grandson sing, Twinkle Little Star.
Magic is all around us and its not very far.
About the Creator
Cathy Deslippe
Catherine Deslippe
At the age of 7, I became an author. I am an international writer with many authors; all royalties went to cancer patients without insurance. I used to write to cope, but now I write to bring others hope.
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making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskar7 days ago in Feast
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