Bulbs

Bulbs are planted months before
They poke out from the soil.
You must have faith that they’ll appear,
Rewarding all that toil.

For they lie dormant underground,
Just waiting for the weather
And then they spring up, bright and bold
Like chorus lines, together.

Their hibernation mystifies,
Like those of sleeping bears;
I wonder what would happen if
We caught them unawares.

I think they’d tuck their petals in
And drop off back to sleep,
Their winter slumber peaceful and,
When undisturbed, quite deep.

But when the time is right, they will
Be set for their debut,
As year to year they greet the spring
When winter waves adieu.