All winter the tulips sleep so sound
Snug in their beds deep underground.
How do they know? Who tells them when
The earth is warm and it’s spring again?
It could be the rain as it trickles down deep
And freshens their roots and wakes them from sleep.
Perhaps it’s the sun that some days, like as not,
Makes their coverlet uncomfortably hot.
Do they hear the birds as they chatter and sing
And chirp about nesting and blue skies and spring?
Someone must tell them in time for the show,
Because springtime is tuliptime,
And they always know.