Burying Bulbs

"Crimson and clover," sings the radio overhead as I wait in the Walgreen's line, which is moving very slowly for 10:30 at night.

An incredibly voluptuous Girl flows by, sashaying down Aisle Such and Such. Look but don't touch is the rule of the married man, I remind myself. Well,it's my Sweetie's fault that I am in here tonight, buying Her a certain something that She needs.

I switch my mind to other things. To bulbs. Today was a day to plant bulbs. Today I dug my fingers into the cool soil and buried crocusses, tulips, daffodils and allium.

It is a curious tribe or two of the flowering family that make bulbs. While more timid bloomers are still safely snuggled in seeds below the cold sod, waiting on serious sunshine, plants that grow from bulbs are already stretching forth their leaves, soaking up the stingy light of late winter.

Daffodil bulbs are big and rough, with a sort of spouty looking thing at the top, like a badly made Greek amphora. Allium are tiny and smooth, like pale acorns without their caps. In between in size are tulips, beloved sign of spring when they raise their proud heads.

As I turned the soil, I disturbed a few lethargic earthworms, which I reburied; and a few white grubs, bad for roots, which failed to win mercy at my hands.