Clara Frey
Contributor
A woman boarded the bus
Bearing a bouquet of orange tulips
Timid, tightly shut little bulbs
Which she would bring home
To place on her kitchen table
Where they would slowly unfurl and expand
Until they looked swollen and somewhat tacky
Petals falling languidly on linoleum
Surrendering either to old age or the swatting of the cat
Yes, they would wither
But not before
Having braved the harsh, oppressive practicality of the bus
Their modest beauty puncturing the heavy grey shroud created by itinerancy and repetition
Not before
Defying cracked concrete roads and dull overcast mornings
They would certainly not wither when
The schoolgirl walloped their opalescent plastic packaging
With her tremendous, trundling tote
And they would not wither before
Sending along
A smidgeon of hope
To the solitary passenger
Searching for a sign of spring
