Like Tulips

They say you should “let the garden sleep” until the average

outside temp is in the 50s.

Last week, Buffalo dropped to a low of 17. 

Over the weekend, we had another frost.

Meanwhile, clumps of Tulips and Daffodils keep busting up

from the earth, their blossoms so vivid, one might mistake

them for silk.

Sleep? They seem to scoff, reaching for the sun,

Like hell we will.

I think of a patient I saw the other day:

Carol, a tiny, bird-like woman in her 80s,

wearing costume jewelry and white-whipped curls.

The kind who puts on lipstick before surgery.

Exactly one week prior, Carol woke up in the ICU to find family

gathered around her, praying the rosary as they prepared to

turn off life support.

Not only had she beaten the odds—

she had beaten them to a pulp.

The look on their faces when they saw

this old bat breathing, she smirked.

They should know I’m too mean to die.

If I ever have children,

I hope they’re just as headstrong.

I hope for tantrums and stomping feet

and naptime shouting matches.

I really do.

And when life tells them to slow down,

I hope they get a little mean.

I hope they make like tulips—

fists busting

through the dirt

and frost

and stacked odds

into a world of vivid color,

open palms ever-reaching for the sun.