Yesterday, i dug eighty holes all
cylindrical and eight inches deep
the maw of the tool hungrily chewing through the
meat of cold soil.
I turned each tulip bulb, pointed side up,
Then tossed in bone meal and earth, and tamped it down
with acorn sized knuckles.
I pause to consider the cylinder of my mouth
as it covers yours, and push deep
the bulb of my tongue, pointed side up
into the heavy history of our soil
we both await the chick down fur of spring.
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