In the Tulip

Her lips were curled into the hollow of a tulip. 
She smiled, filling me with a tiny spring.  

We were quiet,
hiding from the clouds, 
from the loudness of our spoken selves,  

in the hesitant rhythm, 
the small rhythm, 
of keyboard clacking. 

We wrote together. 
And I could see
from the way she smiled 
that she wrote spring.