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Too Early for Night

I've counted seven days of rain. Are the halcyon days

gone south of the equator along with the sun? I know all

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about December 21st, the winter solstice, but I'm not ready

for dusk, closure of the day. I want daffodils not rattling seeds

on gray stalks or purpling Swiss chard. There's been no deep

cold; I'll buy bone meal half price. Planting will be my poem,

become my metaphor for faith, the ice that will glide me over

January, February, even though I've read the statistics on moles

who feast on tulips. April will burst with narcissus, borders

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of collars, flatcups, tazettas. March can be an oriental carpet

of crocus: Goldilocks, Lady Killer, Little Dorrit, Peter Pan.

I'll fax White Flower Farms - 10 dozen double-nosed bulbs

guaranteed to perform the first year - then line the front walk

with tulips chosen for their names: Johann Strauss, Elizabeth

Arden, General Eisenhower. In July, there will be liliums, pure

and white Casa Blanca flanking Strawberry Shortcake blushing

to crimson. To float me through August and its heat, I'll layer

day lilies to jewel a path in pearl, gold, bronze, copper, and ruby.

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