Below the Soil

In front of a building
The gardeners toil,
Their spades digging deep
And unearthing the soil.

Beside them are bulbs
To be buried down deep,
Where they’ll dream of the spring
In their long winter’s sleep.

I ask what they are.
“These are tulips,” I’m told.
In May they will be
Such a joy to behold.

For Nature, at times,
Needs a gardener’s hand
To bring to fruition
The beauty she’s planned.

The building looks bare
With no colors about
But below are the tulips,
Just itching to sprout.