when the tulip pushes through? You think it a silly question, I know. You say the soil isn’t human with feelings or animal with instinct. Is more like a table that can’t answer when someone knocks for good luck, laugh when someone pulls its leg, or scream when someone’s knife digs in. Is oblivious.
But I see a sharp tip as the bud pierces the sepia skin like a thick needle, then red like blood hitting the air. And it inhales like a babe who sucks in first breath, tight-fisted, rooting for the milk of mother earth, the throbbing womb it’s just split open. You know full well life can’t come forth without pain.
Head resting on the window sill, my Lab sits, sniffing the cool autumn air like new grass in spring, watching, perhaps, the mist as it gathers around the ankles of trees, then floats across the lawn like words across a page, wrapping around itself as breezes move its margins, breath of morning flowing like inspiration, drifting through the open window…
Julie L. Moore is the author of Slipping Out of Bloom, forthcoming from WordTech Editions, and the chapbook, Election Day (Finishing Line Press). A Pushcart Prize nominee and recipient of the Rosine Offen Memorial Award from the Free Lunch Arts Alliance, Moore has contributed poetry to Alaska Quarterly Review, Atlanta Review, Chautauqua Literary Journal, The Christian Science Monitor, Cimarron Review, Dogwood, Flint Hills Review, Free Lunch, The MacGuffin, Sou’Wester, and Valparaiso Poetry Review. Her website is www.julielmoore.com.