A Bell Ringing

 by Phillip Peters

Iowa tulips wait 
through the cold
winter to grow in
springtime.
Finding snow still resident, 
reclining, you wait for the 
blooms to come, yellow and
red on white ice packed 
ready to leave town
heading out west to the
frontier of the continent
warm west cost climates
siren winds calling Orcas
swimming, dying in stagnant
pools of seawater full of 
life, itself a caricature
with native Americans
killing them for sport of 
course they call it a 
religious ceremony,
age old custom, sacrificing 
virgins to lesser gods
slowing freezing on a 
Midwest night dreaming of 
their heaven, springtime 
on the coast or nearly there, 
sleeping in a loft with 
someone who is there and not, 
alive and dead, a cat snuggling 
behind your knee, waving
goodbye and hello to a
port town warm in winter
cool in summer, a living
quantum singularity of two
walking the frozen plains of Iowa
while sailing through the 
sea warmed Spanish straits
searching for answers
without question.