When I came home from New York this weekend to temperatures in the mid-70s, my new tulips had opened with a spring splash. They stood (well, some of them leaned) in bunches scattered in the garden. Some of the colors are astonishing. One is a pearlescent pink with a soft yellow wash. Another is cherry pink flecked with white. Another is light lemon. Their cups hide dark hearts. Not only are they different colors, they are different heights and shapes. Some are almond-shaped as they wait to open; others are open classic Us. I looked up Sylvia Plath's poem Tulips. Gorgeous poem. Here's my take: These garden sentinels produce oxygen; they cheer me.