The tulips
in the whiskey barrel
whisper prayers from every leaf,
solemnly open to the gradual, silent light
that might that day take their petals,
prepare for their gracious and inevitable end
in the dazzling last stand of a sunny late April day
(the fading moon a faint, chalky scrape upon the sky)
The tulips are so red
so red against the deep funereal green of freshly-cut grass
so majestically, sincerely, honestly red
that a humble grief overtakes the morning
interrupting shaving and coffee
with a memory of you
sitting in your chair at the window
watching the sun rise
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