“My dear Field” is a letter left unsent. Told through the parable of tulips and a field. A soft reflection on anxious, uneven love. The tulips, once cherished, now ache under the weight of inconsistency, questioning why they were taught to bloom if the field could not stay through the storms. Haunted by memories of love that once felt certain and deliberate, they wrestle with their longing, wondering if they ask too much or if the field has simply grown distant. In the end, it is both a love letter, with emotional exhaustion and a need for constant reassurance, and the quiet resilience of hearts that keep reaching for spring.
•••
My dear Field,
There are mornings I still wake with sunlight in my chest,
believing that warmth is a promise you keep.
And yet, there are others,
grey and trembling.
When even the dawn feels uncertain,
as though it too has forgotten the sound of your voice.
The tulips can be anxious creatures.
After learning that your seasons were conflicting.
Some days, you came with gentleness,
watering every root with patience and light.
Other days, you make it feel withdrawn,
and it feels heavier than frost.
It is a strange ache to feel cherished today
and unremembered tomorrow.
The tulips began to wonder
if perhaps they had asked for too much,
too much rain, too much care, too much remembering.
They feared they had become too familiar to water,
that what was once a miracle
had turned into mere maintenance.
Tell me, dear Field.
why teach the tulips to bloom
if you never meant to tend them through the rain?
Why speak of warmth
if your hands no longer reach with their own will?
They do not wish for perfection, only presence.
Only a steady proof that love still breathes.
But lately, your care feels rehearsed.
Your words arrive as echoes.
You say “I love you,”
and though the tulips bow in reverence,
they feel nothing stir in the soil beneath.
Those same words fall softly,
There are mornings I still wake with sunlight in my chest,
believing that warmth is a promise you keep.
And yet, there are others,
grey and trembling.
When even the dawn feels uncertain,
as though it too has forgotten the sound of your voice.
The tulips can be anxious creatures.
After learning that your seasons were conflicting.
Some days, you came with gentleness,
watering every root with patience and light.
Other days, you make it feel withdrawn,
and it feels heavier than frost.
It is a strange ache to feel cherished today
and unremembered tomorrow.
The tulips began to wonder
if perhaps they had asked for too much,
too much rain, too much care, too much remembering.
They feared they had become too familiar to water,
that what was once a miracle
had turned into mere maintenance.
Tell me, dear Field.
why teach the tulips to bloom
if you never meant to tend them through the rain?
Why speak of warmth
if your hands no longer reach with their own will?
They do not wish for perfection, only presence.
Only a steady proof that love still breathes.
But lately, your care feels rehearsed.
Your words arrive as echoes.
You say “I love you,”
and though the tulips bow in reverence,
they feel nothing stir in the soil beneath.
Those same words fall softly,
like echoes of what once grew wild.
From waiting for what once came naturally.
From waiting for what once came naturally.
The tulips cannot find their rest.
They linger in the half-light,
listening for the soft murmur of the field,
the comfort sound of his breath,
the warmth that hums them into peace.
But he drifts first into slumber,
leaving them adrift in the quiet hum of absence.
They know the day has wearied him,
that the day has taken much from him,
and yet, how gently they ache,
for he never waits to see if they have closed their petals too.
It is a small disregard,
so slight it could be mistaken for nothing at all,
and still, it bruises them a little more each night.
You see, the tulips have known love before.
A love so certain it felt like sunlight on command.
They were once tended with patience and devotion,
gifted blooms on ordinary days,
poetry on quiet weekends,
jewelled vows that glimmered,
They were guarded, adored, and reassured,
just the way they had dreamed love should be.
And perhaps that is why, dear Field,
they now expect too much.
For you do not love as they were once loved.
Perhaps this isn’t your nature,
only a kindness borrowed from memory.
They are falling now,
but they are no longer sure you can catch them.
They love you,
but it is a quiet kind of love.
one that carries its own ache,
and whispers to itself at night:
“Perhaps this is just me. Perhaps this is my mind again.”
And if they were to wither now,
it would not be a tragedy,
but a soft surrender to the earth.
A tired peace wrapped in memory.
For they have loved as deeply as their roots would allow,
and perhaps that is all love ever asks of them.
Yet still, they stay.
Still, they reach for the field,
even when the frost lingers too long.
For the tulips cannot silence their trembling affection.
They love him still, always.
Perhaps too earnestly, too anxiously,
fearful that such sincerity might go unreturned.
They do not ask for grand gestures,
only for his constancy.
for his hands to remember how to care,
for his heart to never grow weary of trying.
And if he could see them now,
he would know,
the tulips have never ceased believing in his spring.
They only pray that the field
will not give up on them before they bloom again.
They linger in the half-light,
listening for the soft murmur of the field,
the comfort sound of his breath,
the warmth that hums them into peace.
But he drifts first into slumber,
leaving them adrift in the quiet hum of absence.
They know the day has wearied him,
that the day has taken much from him,
and yet, how gently they ache,
for he never waits to see if they have closed their petals too.
It is a small disregard,
so slight it could be mistaken for nothing at all,
and still, it bruises them a little more each night.
You see, the tulips have known love before.
A love so certain it felt like sunlight on command.
They were once tended with patience and devotion,
gifted blooms on ordinary days,
poetry on quiet weekends,
jewelled vows that glimmered,
They were guarded, adored, and reassured,
just the way they had dreamed love should be.
And perhaps that is why, dear Field,
they now expect too much.
For you do not love as they were once loved.
Perhaps this isn’t your nature,
only a kindness borrowed from memory.
They are falling now,
but they are no longer sure you can catch them.
They love you,
but it is a quiet kind of love.
one that carries its own ache,
and whispers to itself at night:
“Perhaps this is just me. Perhaps this is my mind again.”
And if they were to wither now,
it would not be a tragedy,
but a soft surrender to the earth.
A tired peace wrapped in memory.
For they have loved as deeply as their roots would allow,
and perhaps that is all love ever asks of them.
Yet still, they stay.
Still, they reach for the field,
even when the frost lingers too long.
For the tulips cannot silence their trembling affection.
They love him still, always.
Perhaps too earnestly, too anxiously,
fearful that such sincerity might go unreturned.
They do not ask for grand gestures,
only for his constancy.
for his hands to remember how to care,
for his heart to never grow weary of trying.
And if he could see them now,
he would know,
the tulips have never ceased believing in his spring.
They only pray that the field
will not give up on them before they bloom again.
Yours, always,
The Tulips 🌷
The Tulips 🌷