If things won't come, you force them.
As if you could bring spring out with forceps.
There was a four-month snow pack out the back, in the yard, in the garden, all lineage erased, the path the same as the borders, and then the snow began to fall again overnight in the wee dark hours, when February continues its torment ministrations upon our eyelids.
Under the fresh wind-drifted snow is the story of the ice storm, kept as if in the deep underground carrels of a snow archive library. And we the snow librarians ain't going down into that lower level, come hell or wet Dewey Decimal Snow System.
The story is: March brings relief.
We believe all kinds of stories to stay alive; we need to.
A world of Dante tulips is down there, the pinks, the pink-silvers, the slivers of ammonia purple. The wettened, the weird, the worldly, the whirling dervish of lime chlorophyll which feeds our bones spring love crush crazy. It is all there.
Under the snow pack is the large waiting room of our Northern souls.
They're having a tulip party down there. So far, we are not invited.
So forces force them, bring the bulb juice to fruition.
At the corner little market store, the modest bouquet in plastic asks to be taken home, kept and watered. To be put in a snowy white vase, to shine the kitchen table hope orange.
(Photo by Susan, kitchen, February 13, 2014)