"The tulips are too excitable; it is winter here."
wrapped in your clean sheets, Sylvia,
you were hoping for sterile whiteness
to enter the clouds
sleepwalking the beach bleached as the shells
these conflagrations come burning
through your hospital room
cutting the illusion of orderliness
a bouquet of red tulips.
"My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water."
exhausted by poetry
the nurses watered and pruned your garden
until you grew only emptiness
but such doting and fussiness leads
back to vibrant flowers
one million beautiful assumptions
of the spring
and you had no rest.
Tulips are incompatible
with white sheets
when snow hangs on their branches
a house servant’s white uniform
on deep scarlet
but you knew that tulips don’t age, do they?
Tulips are attentive pupils
will not survive winter season thus
O they were
eating all the oxygen in the room you say
but you know youth will
while you were scrubbing off remnants of your life
and you feared their season
what you needed was holly or blackberry brambles
witch hazel’s coarse and crabby resilience
because they understand the only way to live is to take
vengeance on winter and strife.
They say there's plenty other flower
But you're the one that matter
Should i want another?
This flower meant more than a lover
The last few petals are still there
Making it hard for me to stare
Inevitable, i still care
But who's to say all is fair
You fought well hard & true
I guess i did so, too
I'm trying to save you, really i do
Tulips are weak, like us two.
Svelte Rogue, ACS
You didn't care much for Easter
or for flowers for that matter
yet I went to the store and bought
a bouquet of pink and yellow tulips.
Now here I stand in the midday sun
my shaking fingers clutching the long green stems,
as a warm, slow tear drips off my chin.
I kneel down and set the flowers down next to the temporary sign that holds your name,
wondering again why I even bothered.
I grab a handful of the dirt that now hugs your body and cringe at the thought of you laying just feet below me.
I can't help but wish that you were here.
When did you tell me that the sunrise was unwelcome, that the hallways gave you such anxiety and that I should just as well stay in?
I told you once that you looked young, yet sixty years had passed since your death, and you, Sylvia, were beautiful...
Said the vivid tulips ate your oxygen.
Poets have great sympathy for you in the way we gasp in sorrow and strive for beauty.
I know exactly why I love you.