Tulip Tree in Bloom, January
by Tim J. Myers
Every working day I pass
and strain to see, when it appears,
petals out this time of year.
Even our southern winter’s strong–
it hunkers down and won’t move on:
A sky that presses close its gray;
chilling drizzle day by day;
dark roofs ranked as far as sight
can make them out in dreary light;
the city’s business, lusterless,
car and bank, store and bus.
Even as we rush about,
we settle in to wait it out;
the whole world sighs and mutters Winter–
except this small and frail dissenter
who seems to have her signals crossed–
stands half-splendid, half at loss,
and throws out from each kindling branch
blossoms whiter than a trance.
Winter has its point to press;
like everyone, I acquiesce.
So why be caught by such a thing–
one little fool who thinks it’s spring?
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