TFR Home Page TFR Home PageContents ContentsPrev. Page Prev. PageNext Page Next PageComments Comments

          By Taylor Graham

          They arrive in cardboard coffins:
          dry brown bulbs to be returned
          to earth. With numb fingers

          we bury them in mud, then wait
          by the iron stove for spring.
          But when we least expect it,
          in the night, the scouts come
          camouflaged in green. And then,

          one chilled morning they explode
          in flame. Brassy trumpets edged
          with crimson; a frill of blood-
          red around a yellow fringe.
          In waves they carry us away.
          What can we do but dance?

TFR Home Page | Submission Guidelines | Frequently Asked Questions | Sign Our Guest Book | Contents | Donations
Workshops | Event Calendar | TFR Background | How to Contact Us | Editors and Authors Only | Privacy Statement

© Copyright 1997, 2023, The Fairfield Review Inc., All Rights Reserved.
Document last modified on: 01/06/2007

(i[r].q=i[r].q||[]).push(arguments)},i[r].l=1*new Date();a=s.createElement(o),

ga('create', 'UA-22493141-2', 'auto');
ga('send', 'pageview');