Having already opened the earth,
having turned dark spadefuls of dirt out,
he kneels, his knees on the soft soil,
the bag of bulbs she bought beside him:
hyacinths—hard pale lumps no bigger
than his thumb tip—possibility
asleep inside each one, all the green
and purple tucked away for winter.
He turns one small bulb in his fingers,
feeling how it tapers to a tip,
feeling the little nipple of roots.
One by one, he places them—roots down,
tips up—and spreads dirt over them,
covering them gently until they
disappear. Then he pats the ground smooth,
the bulbs invisible to eye and hand.

He thinks about her smooth pale skin,
about how soft and warm she was
wherever he touched, about feeling
her breath and pulse in his fingertips,
about her breasts he kissed and stroked.
He thinks about lumps invisible
in her, planted deeper than his touch,
their possibility locked in her
all her life, waiting, keeping secret
the color of their flowers, the wild way
they would sprout and spread.