flowers below you, like grass.
All alone, tall, striking
mouth open,
flaunting your bits
for the bees and the bugs,
hoping that someone will
notice you and, drawn to the
tall red cup,
enter you,
take of you,
that the art that you are
may live on,
that it might extend
to new gardens and lawns
tall red cup in a new bed,
lips open wide
in the spring.
And who would call you a sin,
tall red Tulip?
For flowers bring glory to God.
No one covers a tulip when it blooms
in the spring,
not in protection from hungry eyes- eyes that
move hands to pick.
Not to shield children from looking inside
at the clandestine work
of the bees.
Where is the shame
in the making of honey,
the giving of pollen
to the wind?
Stand tall, beloved tulip
above purple grass
that kisses your roots,
tilts to see your red cup.
Stand tall to the sun,
with no shame
for your beauty,
never to be covered
never to feel guilty.
