A pattern of undersized tulips,
I remember there were
only four different ones, repeated,
not quite a garden,
but planted in the soft soil
of a little girl's mind.
I was scared of
the crash of thunder, the
snatch of a kidnapper, and mostly
of waking up to fire:
safe among scattered tulips,
I'd plan my escape route
through the high window
above my bed, and out
onto the limb
of the giant leafy elm
looming in the backyard.
Sleepless each night,
I believed I would
be all right
if I huddled close
to the faded, yellowed spot
on the wall by my bed,
and waited,
tracing through the half-light
each darkened tulip,
with the quivering tip
of my finger.
Nina Riggs