“The tulip field,” he said,
Eyes puppy-wide,
Though I almost missed them on account of my screen.
Not today, I thought,
The inbox as full as the sink as the laundry basket as my List of Very Important Things.
It was the pants that caught my eye.
An inch higher than last week, I swear. His brother’s too.
Everyone warned me this would happen, of course.
The way they shoot up, faster than a field of dandelions, without my assent.
By the time spring comes again, I wonder,
Will you be driving a car, getting a job, calling to check in on a Sunday evening?
So I trade deadlines for hastily slathered peanut butter sandwiches
And we picnic with the tulips.
For tulips bloom bright and brilliant,
But the season is short—
Like morning fog.
Like blinking.
Like last year’s pants.
