The tulips are doomed,
sitting ducks in tonight’s late frost,
two feet tall and naked. Red as
my mother’s Revlon lipstick, they opened
shamelessly all day in the sun, but close tight now
at twilight, succulent triangles cupping
their deep black centers.
Clustered unaware under the moonless night sky
clear of any warming cloud, they stand
mute, bunched and rooted,
undefended as the air plunges to chill.
In the morning, their petals are puckered,
and beginning to fail.
One severed bloom I found yesterday
floats in a cup of mild water
inside the house –
beheaded, but warm, and perfect.
Published in The Writers’ Café, 2018
After retiring from a column-writing gig lasting eleven years and yielding over 300 personal essays, I find I still have something to say. My thoughts range far and wide, and occasionally deep, on subjects including being an Iowan who misses Colorado; surviving marital violence; raising an amazing daughter and an equally amazing son; being justifiably angry about the world “these days;” writing poetry and plays; wondering if I’ll get Alzheimer’s like my mom and her two brothers; wanting to write about my twin granddaughters without sounding all Hallmark-y; fixing OCD-ish food; making sense of pants that come in shorts / crops / ankle-grazing / bootcut; being a librarian in public, academic, archival, and medical libraries; waiting 46 years to attend my high school reunion; having a gorgeous garden I can’t take care of; seeing a shaman; loving good men despite all the bad ones; and trying to wrest a little joy from life despite an 11-year-and-counting chronic migraine.