The tulips I grow in pots never do as well as the ones spreading rampant in my backyard bulbs swollen big as fists sprays of flowers bursting like fireworks from a single hidden point. Every time I try
to recreate the flamboyant show of color from out there in here, I end up with shrunken, mold-speckled bulbs bearing withered, yellow-green stalks twisted striped buds that open sickly as sea anemones in polluted tidepools on some frigid coast.
my father’s hands parting the water, trying to see past leaves, dead fish, floating branches diving down and finding nothing
every time the wind blows the curtains in every shadow that doesn’t belong where is she thirty years later and I’m still waiting for her ghost
The New Farm
we plant the apple trees in long, straight rows, twist the thin, soft limbs into gang symbols, secret signs chuckle amongst ourselves at the thought of a someday forest of giant hands flash-frozen in “East Side!”, “Longhorns!” and “peace.”
halfway through the day, we break for lunch, spread picnic blankets on the unturned earth, contemplate the mechanics of crop circles, wonder how many sunflowers we’d have to plant to make a smiley face visible from space.
Holly Day is a mother of two living in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she teaches writing course at the Loft Literary Center.