There are certain moonlit nights
when the garden calls.
I value my time there.
Not the roses.
Not the lilies.
Not all that other
fancy shit.
The tulips.
Especially in July,
when the humidity won’t let up,
and the windows are open,
and the whole night
smells like sweat and heat.
Put on some Coltrane,
pour a little wine,
dim the lights.
Then ease my way
into the tulips.
There’s something about
a woman on her hands and knees
in the garden
that makes a man
forget his manners.
You start slow.
You pay attention.
You listen to the landscape.
You don’t rush it.
You give it time.
You give it your hands,
your mouth,
your patience.
And when the garden
finally opens,
there’s a sweetness there
you can’t explain
without ruining it.
No pretty posy.
No clever metaphor.
No gods pouring nectar
from the heavens.
Just two people
in the dark
trying to disappear
inside each other.
The world can wait.
There are some nights
I could stay
in the tulips forever.
