By Rebecca Evans

Late winter, every year,

I can’t wait until spring.

At the window each morning I water

and turn the antique bowl of tulips

I potted up last fall and rooted

in my cold, dark room in the cellar.

On cloudy days, the stalks rising up

lean beseechingly into the light.

Their tightly closed, pointed leaves,

like hands steepled in prayer,

shield their flower bud embryos.

Oh, God, I’m afraid of the dark

of growing old. I fear

the infirmities of age.

Bless me, protect me,

I am still your tender plant.

No matter how low

my parched stalk may bend,

teach me patience waiting for spring,

the same patience of trees,

free me from complaint,

nurture me like ripening fruit

before it falls from the tree,

keep turning me

toward the light.