Flaring green glass vase

of tulips

yellowed leaves turn


against the light

the renaissance perfection of

color saturated petals

progresses to mannerist decay

ghostly greens and purples

watercolor washes

sharp penciled lines

outlining curling edges

finely etched dark pistils


slender stems

in perfect curves

or cypress straight

translucent faded petals flutter down

aborted seeds

yet the image on the eye

may germinate

into a poem

as the leaf sprouts

from the twig

Leaving winter behind.

3 thoughts on “Tulips

  1. Erika I love the details of your writing, the names of colors which spoken take on new tone— and your reading voice is as solid and yet earthen as Robert Frost… and I like the connection to your August in Italy poem…

    ❤️🙏 J

    Sent from my iPhone



  2. Oh, tulips! How I love them! And in all of their phases. Especially towards the end, when gravity takes its inevitable toll. But even after the petals fall, they can still have poignant color and shape. That’s my cue to let them dry and keep them as part of my life. À propos of that, I was glad I could enlarge the photo to see the beautiful portrait of your mother—another treasured memory.

    Envoyé de mon Di-Phone


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