In a city so neutral
and so starved
for space,
it's incredible
to chance upon
one redolent rectangle—
perhaps tucked away
beneath a magnolia
or crabapple—
in which breezes
spread their wings between
a company of tulips,
arranged there
like a jazz score—that is,
meticulously scattered;
some pink, some white,
others plum, a few
fruit-striped.
And it's still-more
outlandish to hear
their swaying stems whisper
as they nod
their strange advice
from that rarefied glade:
it likely doesn't matter
which odd words
you use to capture us,
as long as their presence
is adequate
to decorate
and perfume
some expressionless,
barren page.
