Head Down

Thirty degrees this morning and the

garden is still, chilled into silence. Birds

are holding their breath, hesitant to give

their side of the story. A sentinel cat

sits on the wall, scanning for tiny rustlings,

while the frosted grass holds still, wary

of giving clues to the whereabouts.

The sole surviving tulip leans

close to the ground,

keeping its head down, whipped

into submission by last night’s wind.

One velvety petal detaches into my hand.

I stroke its vulnerable pinkness

and think of new-born babies.

               --Agatha