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.