3 DECEMBER 1994, Page 57

Bulbs

Like an addict in need of supplies, I buy bags and bags of them. They nuzzle each other inside the brown paper. I've a lust for them like a pregnant woman for a certain food.

I set them out on the kitchen table. The raw light hurts them. They want to be snugged in the moist, dark bed. The root of this daffodil is like several dead spiders.

This crocus is postmarked with a small brown sun. They wear thread-bare vests of pencil- shavings, darned with dark soil from their past earth lives. Some have a small white fang at the tip. I don't want to plant them. I'd like to leave them, as candles keeping vigil in the night; hold one in my hand all winter, forgo Spring's gaudy show of gold and keep these rough and awkward hope-packed things.