White Tulip
Freezing, alone, a girl within herself tends the ground;
Knowing the water does nothing but freeze, till around
The turn of the year, winter gives way to spring again,
Where cold, distant ice sees to mending; flowers begin
To grow; their petals moist with rain, and tears, left over
From cruel storms bold enough to haunt this cold December.
A hope in Hell, for those that still have the strength to dream
Of Heaven here on what seems to be a barren earth.
Opening her mouth, she still could not muster a scream,
And could not bear the memory of love's distant birth.
But summer comes, and the rains are warm for her again!
For she was born, too. To laugh, and dance, and now begin
To grow like the white tulip, though delicate and small,
Still—perennial in the hearts of poets, who all,—
Remember their little flowers,—no matter how long
They must wait, through bleakest months, and hours, for their song
To hold in truth and sight, to smell and caress petals,
Held fast but in memories too long, and short, to live.
But there is hope in this barren climate that trembles:
Her blossoming happiness is more than fame could give.
Copyright © Rhys Owens | Year Posted 2012
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