It is morning in March

and a tulip has pushed 

its slim fingertips, three

green spades shoveling


through soil, fanning out 

into a star, leaning back,

to reveal a deeper heart,

rise before the day moves


or the stalk begins its reach 

for the sun. My daughter 

remarks on their eagerness,

these leaves which still bear


no beauty, attract no buzz,

withholds its mauve scent, 

an upturned skirt; for now,

it is still morning in March.



Jared Beloff is a teacher and poet who lives in Queens, NY with his wife and two daughters. You can find his work in The Westchester Review, littledeathlit, and the forthcoming issues of Contrary Magazine and others. You can find him online at www.jaredbeloff.com. Follow him on twitter @read_instead