The tulips turn to me, and the window behind me Nobody watched me before, now I am watched. Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color, They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds. Lightly, through their white swaddlings, like an awful baby. The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.Įven through the gift paper I could hear them breathe Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet. It is what the dead close on, finally I imagine them How free it is, you have no idea how free –Īnd it asks nothing, a name tag, a few trinkets. To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty. I am a nun now, I have never been so pure. Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head. I watched my teaset, my bureaus of linen, my books Scared and bare on the green plastic-pillowed trolley They have swabbed me clear of my loving associations. Stubbornly hanging on to my name and address. I have let things slip, a thirty-year~old cargo boat Their smiles catch onto my skin, little smiling hooks. My husband and child smiling out of the family photo My patent leather overnight case like a black pillbox, Now I have lost myself I am sick of baggage They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently. My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water So it is impossible to tell how many there are. They pass the way gulls pass inland in their white caps,ĭoing things with their hands, one just the same as another, The nurses pass and pass, they are no trouble, Stupid pupil, it has to take everything in. Like an eye between two white lids that will not shut. They have propped my head between the pillow and the sheet-cuff I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the nursesĪnd my history to the anesthetist and my body to surgeons. I am nobody I have nothing to do with explosions. I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietlyĪs the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands. Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in. ![]() The tulips are too excitable, it is winter here. StallingsĪnd drink the moment through long straws,Īnd give themselves up to the light. Tulips limited edition flower art from an original watercolor painting by Dean Crouser. Nowadays flowers are not only a product of creation but also an artistic value, a new soul, new beauty, new value. ![]() They talk about life, human love, love life, even about politics and philosophy. Poems about flowers speak of love and yearning, like morning love songs. Therefore, poets use the image of flowers as a striking aesthetic, especially in love. Flowers are people, people are flowers, flowers also have personalities and emotions. Scents of flowers help to comfort the spirit, colors bring beauty to the soul, will and energy. Flowers are also seen as a homeland, a part of the longing for love. For centuries, there have been many famous poems about flowers, from classic to modernity by a lot of great poets.įlowers are considered as a sexy image in the scenery. Nature is the endless source of inspiration in literature and poetry, nature captivates many poets’ hearts, in which flowers are the soul, emotions and messages that poets wants to entrust in their poems. Ralph Waldo Emersonįlowers, plants, clouds, wind and rivers… are natural organisms, considered as nature. 94, The Lilies Whisper Poetry by Deborah Amarįlowers are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty out values all the utilities in the world.87, Love Is Like Dandelions by Sonny Rainshine. ![]()
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