by Tim Gavin
The blooming tulips, tongues unfolding,
Speaking ancient languages and reciting medieval
Ballads and I remember the bulbs – so round
And bland – I couldn’t imagine the potential
Deep within its flakey skin and oval shape
And I could barely entertain the expanse
Of its journey from the black dirt to the blue
Sky and I had no vision of its delicate sense
Of balance as it in the wind topples side to side.