A Tulip I Never Planted Grows
Lisa Rua-Ware
 

​One day, a tulip emerged
bright, red, folded, 
patiently waiting to open,
his arms, he grew upon 
dead stems, last year’s 
dried dirt, thorned vines 
invading the bed, he grew
with the weight of my father’s
grave, 50 miles away, where 
grass seed is beginning 
to take against wind, 
the chill keeps 
the bitter still cold. 
the bitter, still cold.
The chill 
takes against wind,
as grass seed begins 
to grave 50 miles away
the weight of him,
invades this bed, grows 
thorned vines, dries dirt,
last years’ dead stems,
His arms, 
wait patiently, he opens
bright red, unfolding
the day, my father emerges.