The tulips make me want to paint,
Something about the way they drop
Their petals on the tabletop
And do not wilt so much as faint..
Something about their burnt-out hearts,
Something about their pallid stems
Wearing decay like diadems,
Parading ﬁnishes like starts..
Something about the way they twist
As if to catch the last applause,
And drink the moment through long straws,
And how, tomorrow, they’ll be missed.
The way they’re somehow getting clearer,
The tulips make me want to see—
The tulips make the other me
(The backwards one who’s in the mirror..
The one who can’t tell left from right),
Glance now over the wrong shoulder
To watch them get a little older
And give themselves up to the light. A.E. Stallings
The Tulips my friend Audrey gave me last week are almost gone now…most of the petals have fallen on the table top…she was generous in her giving…24 pink tulips looked so lavish in my green Deco vase…now half are bent, the weight of their heads too heavy for the fragile stems…I have commemorated them here..
Watercolour on Arches Not Paper..