Here is my long awaited (if not anticipated) entry in this month's Word & Question. For the rest of the entries, visit the lovely Lindsay over at Very Sleepy People.
I fear I have mixed metaphors. I know what I'm trying to say, but question the marketability of this word I would give you. Inconsistent throughout, I never waver from the resolution to use exactly the wrong word.
When whiskey sooths the aching heart
And blues like storm winds howl and sigh
A longing for domestic arts
Or artless trust to walk beside
Is lightened by a choir's praise
And tulips fresh from cool spring rains
Bloom from death, and give away
Instead of grabbing at the reins
And though consolations pass
As flowers fall to rise again
They leave their mark upon the grass
Each petal soft with hopeful stains
Question: When do the tulips bloom?