spring day pome

TULIP

Innocent as a balloon,
you, tulip, mottle
the plain places. Snake-backed leaves
or fawn-spotted
like a green animal from the mind of the
woods, furling its
wings back; it will presently slip
away. The green
bud seals color like the eyes of the dead.
But the blood glows
through, as if you held your heart
to the light. The lips
part, the flower rolled by hand
opens: a gold-flecked pear
pulses red. Inside, the pinions engraved
on the petals wear
the quill and shaft of desire. Speak in a
tapestried tongue.
O creature: speak in fire.


~Nancy Willard