mmmmdcclxxx

I wish that I were

purple tulips swaying
in the Dutch breeze
in such an expansive
field that the earth

was but a royal bruise.
Better still, I wish I were
tulips of fresh-petaled red
opening on a chilly morn

ing in the Himalayas, which,
it says right here, is from
where tulips originally came.
I’d pick just enough to make

a bouquet with no seeming
dent in the lushly blushing
garden and I’d walk them
over the mountains and

carry them with me on a
ship or else while riding a 

swift-moving water creature

all the way to wherever

you might be.  And even
if they’ve been long-wilted
and dispersed along the
mountain trails and into 

the billowing ocean, what 

ever their structure and 

state when I arrived at 

your doorstep I’d drop 

them all and give you 

the biggest kiss ever, 

regale you with the
wonders of my tulip

adventure, recount
the beauty of the
purple tulips of
Amsterdam and

the burgeoning
blood-red blooms
in the steeped
regions of Central

Asia, and we’d pour
ourselves some wine
and as the day grew
dim, I’d let you know,

as if all but nonchalantly
that I’d not be setting
foot out into the world,
no, never, not once again,

unless by chance you
were to accompany me.
And out we’d go to
wherever we’d go.