False Spring is a parable about consistency in love, told through the quiet devotion between tulips and the field that sustains them. The tulips represent a woman who loves deeply, whose sense of safety and belonging depends on steady care. The field is her lover . Warm, patient, and grounding. But at times, inconsistent. When his warmth fades, even slightly, the tulips begin to question not just his love but their own worth. The poem speaks to how consistency is not routine, but reassurance. The daily proof that love is still alive. It mourns the ache of feeling someone pull away, even subtly, and the weary that grows in silence. Yet it also carries hope, that with honesty and effort, love can outlast the frost. The tulips do not ask for perfection. Only presence, and a promise that the warmth that began them will not be taken away.
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The tulips learned the rhythm of the field.
How the wind hummed soft when morning came,
how dew arrived like clockwork promises,
and warmth unfolded in familiar soils.
Good morning was whispered every dawn,
until the sun forgot to rise.
It was small
Just one sunrise
but the tulips read it like a prophecy.
Wondered if the field had turned its care
ato other blooms,
or if the tulips had simply grown
too familiar to water.
The field once taught them what warmth feels like
in the first bloom.
when love was pursuit,
when every word felt like spring.
But love, to tulips, is not just the first bloom.
It’s the tending after.
the staying through the rain,
still remembering how it began.
Don’t start the spring
if you can’t stay through its rain.
Don’t teach her the sound of safety
if silence will follow.
Because when warmth disappears,
tulips doesn’t just miss the sun,
they doubts their own roots.
When the warmth shifts,
The tulips will start to wither inside.
Not from the cold,
but from not knowing why it’s colder.
build a hundred storms in their mind,
and still choose to believe
in the field’s promise of weather.
That is what love costs them,
to bloom again,
even after frost.
If the field ever tires, let it speak.
If its soil grows thin, say so.
But if it keeps them growing,
let it be all the way,
not just in the chase,
but in the keeping.
Because the tulip can survive the frost,
but not the false spring
that never meant to stay.
Because to them,
consistency is not habit.
It is home.
How the wind hummed soft when morning came,
how dew arrived like clockwork promises,
and warmth unfolded in familiar soils.
Good morning was whispered every dawn,
until the sun forgot to rise.
It was small
Just one sunrise
but the tulips read it like a prophecy.
Wondered if the field had turned its care
ato other blooms,
or if the tulips had simply grown
too familiar to water.
The field once taught them what warmth feels like
in the first bloom.
when love was pursuit,
when every word felt like spring.
But love, to tulips, is not just the first bloom.
It’s the tending after.
the staying through the rain,
still remembering how it began.
Don’t start the spring
if you can’t stay through its rain.
Don’t teach her the sound of safety
if silence will follow.
Because when warmth disappears,
tulips doesn’t just miss the sun,
they doubts their own roots.
When the warmth shifts,
The tulips will start to wither inside.
Not from the cold,
but from not knowing why it’s colder.
They want to love fully this time,
to trust that what grows here
isn’t borrowed sunlight.
But some days,
they grow tired of asking
for the same warmth once given freely.
Some days, they feel like a burden.
As if blooming asks too much of the field.
And still, they stay.
Still lift their faces toward the light,
because they believe in the promise
the field planted in their first bloom.
build a hundred storms in their mind,
and still choose to believe
in the field’s promise of weather.
That is what love costs them,
to bloom again,
even after frost.
If the field ever tires, let it speak.
If its soil grows thin, say so.
But if it keeps them growing,
let it be all the way,
not just in the chase,
but in the keeping.
Because the tulip can survive the frost,
but not the false spring
that never meant to stay.
Because to them,
consistency is not habit.
It is home.