of bone meal
into rich brown mud,
she places each tulip bulb,
coated in the dark mixture,
a nest of kiss-shaped eggs,
close, but not touching.
In October’s now, she sees April,
sealing it in, pats down the earth,
like a sea-turtle burying her offspring.
Maybe the bones’ phosphorous will glow
a little in that darkness—guiding the shoots upward,
as the luminescent sea signals to
those baby turtles: This is your chance. Swim.