Tulip

A dark orb

opens its closed,

stilled fist of a heart

into a thrum and beat.

Blinded by pressing

darkness and relentlessly in solitude,

tender with translucence

of newborn skin,

it pushes through

coarse, dense earth,

which has held it both safe

and captive,

in ceaseless

pursuit of a sun it knows—

with no proof, and beyond all reason—

is.

Breaking embraces

of constraint and dormancy,

it unfurls itself—

an audacious, wild-green spear

of declaration!—

into the creamy blue,

and, kissed by breezes,

begins to dance.

—Genève Gil