Mother Frost

POETRY

by Lana Doronkina

My mother’s favorite flower has always been the tulip. She tends to them with ferocious attention, their predictability welcomed amidst the recurring pains of spring. She watches their pink and yellow petals lazily stretch towards the sun, her eyes watering as their sickly-sweet scent permeates the warm air. The bush reflects her dazed smile. 

My mother’s tulips should be an oasis in our deserted garden. Their perfection is a welcome reprieve from the decrepit Barbie bicycle and rusted power tools hidden away in the corner - byproducts of a decade of grief. Still, I cannot bring myself to enjoy the sight of them. All I can see are oppressively bright colors and sneering faces, mocking those of us who do not feel the warmth of this spring - reminding us that we are not as they are.  

Hellebore flowers glitter  

Petals awakening to face the graying sky 

Vibrant in the midst of death