
How the Artist considered the Tulip
It seems strange,
She did not paint
The voluptuous velvet shell,
Nor did she trace
The fimbriated lines
Of delicate leaves
Weaving in suspended air.
Rather,
She dared to pierce
With her brush
Into the very center
Of the beautiful creature,
Where muddy loam
Mixed with sunlight laden rain
To sculpt a fiery heart
Thrusting a blinding
Flash of color back to the
Cold blue sky of
Failing winter, crying out
In desperate measure:
Here I am, Pick me!
Oh, here I am,
Pick me.
November 2015
Nice poem Lona.
❤️✌️
BY FOR NOW
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you Dawn! 💜
LikeLiked by 1 person
Your Welcome Lona.
❤️✌️
BY FOR NOW
LikeLiked by 1 person