I wanted to plant six, one for each year. You said nine was your favourite number. I said each bulb was a little miracle. You told me that only Jesus could perform those. I thought each green tip was a hand shooting up in class. You said they were rockets blasting off to the moon. I ransacked colour charts to describe the blue. You said we had a pot full of sky. I felt they were as sad as spent fireworks. You told me meteorites didn’t last long either. I stood there thinking this was a metaphor. You went off to find something better to do.