The peony, perhaps --
Her hundred wanton lips
Curling or dropping,
Windblown, antvisited --
May marvel at the tulip
Who, demure,
Unfolds herself into
That sure, spare bowl --
The tulip, who, frill-unobscured
Blushes her pink, her
Firm bright red, her
Confident yellow --
Perhaps the peony --
Pouting, flirting, gives herself
More sweetly to the earth
Than her tall
Unbending sister --
Yet this is sure:
That love is no less deep
Is no less pure
That unfolds itself in days
quiet, straight, sure.
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Beautifully written.
ReplyDeleteWow! I love this one, Emily.
ReplyDelete:) awesomeness! -Martha
ReplyDeleteBeautiful.
ReplyDeletethanks guys :)
ReplyDeletethe tulips were a birthday present from Tray and Jenna!