In Praise of Individualism

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.

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