Temperance

I got her purple tulips because they mean royalty,

I tell her as they sit in a vase between us.

I do not tell her that tulips were the first thing

that were ever mine, the only thing

my mother let me plant in her garden,

the only place in his house that was ever her home.

I do not tell her that this shade of purple

was the favorite color of my childhood best friend,

a girl I no longer speak to but who helped me plant tulips

and appears in my dreams at least once a week.

I do not tell her that being with her feels like

the relief of the first winter breeze

that told us it was time to plant, that burying my hands

in the cool dark earth felt like meeting God.

I do not tell her that some years they couldn’t take

the heat of those summers that felt like

the world itself wanted everything to die, and

we would have to dig up the dead bulbs to replace them.

I do not tell her that I am afraid

we are as delicate as these flowers.

I only tell her that I hope one day

she will plant tulips with me.