The Tulip’s Ruminations on the End of Winter

3 more months of this Minnesota winter…


In the stillness of being still–

She remains cold.

Her stem sits stiffly suppressed

Sectioned off by snow, dirt and debris.

She is starved for the sun’s reflection.

She is thirsty, to say the least.

Parched beyond dehydration.

Famished for the food it provides.

Ravenous for it’s warm embrace.

She is


This beast that beckons

Deep within the recesses of her soils

Toils with her

And taunts her

And tugs and tugs

At the insatiable longing–

To want.

To need.

To have.

She aches for the sun’s touch.

The itch for something much more than this:

The absence of winter’s endless abyss.

She is tired of being curled up inside herself

Exhausted from yearning and longing

So she buries her herself even further down


The greediness of pleasure.

The drought she drowns in every winter

By seeking out

Each and every endeavor

That didn’t allow the fever

To take over

Her leaves

Her buds

Her ambitions of the most lustful kinds.

She unwinds

The days with fanning the desire

By fantasizing of honey bees

Suckling her pistol neatly tucked between her petals.

She meddles the night away

By dreaming of the sun’s rays.

Longing for their heat and fire

As this desire drains and drains and drains her

She remains stuck in her mire of self-pity.

Living each winter as a martyr

Bundled up, with lots of layers piled on

As time slogs away

She feels herself decay against the weight of it all.

Falling so very far down

Wondering if anyone even heard her muffled sounds

As she sees one last handful of the earth’s cold soil

Thrown on top of her pile

She recoils and represses

The messes it all made.

So she waits.

And waits and waits some more.

Frozen and frigid

Hiding inside her sad space of reality…

And just as she thinks she can’t take another moment of this—

The sun peeks its head through the crevices of her cage

Unleashing its power

Like a lover whispering what he’d do to her

Showering her with kisses

In all the right places

Dismissing the cold

And chilly days

As if they never happened…

She’d burst open

Like a beautiful butterfly flying her first flight

She’d be different.


Reborn with petals so pretty

That the sun’s reflection on her

Would blind everyone who saw her.

And she would grow and grow and grow.


  1. 🦋 This is beautiful.

    It’s a cold Autumn here but your words lifted me. I love the line “Like a beautiful butterfly flying her first flight”

    I’d like to share this post on my Tuesday reblogs next Tuesday (Sydney time) at Riverside Peace.

    Liked by 1 person

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s