Yellow petals fall across the cloth.
High time to throw old tulips out.
But I've waited nearly one whole year
for them to grow and bloom.
Those petals with their onyx dust,
of little use in here, no longer are
just part of a greater sum of six
but each one is itself a whole.
When they wither, then I'll carry them
like feathers to the stream, launch the fleet,
each petal steered by one pistil, black
and sharp as the beak of a stork.
No matter if they end up swirling
in an eddy, or clustered on the rocks
like broken boats in hurricanes, or
spent butterflies. Each still has its life.