we now declare tulips up and red.
here is my lord, the petal, waxy and loud.
bend to the flower of thought

and string it through the iron of everyday thought-
lessness. I join my life to less and less,
my rich and tulip-filled blooming

to be remembered, though I dream it only.

then to the fields below,
fields moving with wind and sheep,
sheep moving with fields of wind,

wind that blades
the distant as does it the near
and reaches behind itself

down at river’s edge
where it goes to pieces over
the pieces it’s become.


the poet took the podium

pushing aside what comes in between (because of this, the downy woodpecker sidled-up the branch & stuck close) wind knocked without text

the poet took the podium & in a poet’s way, made me sad although he said he’d read poems with april in it to remind us that it was spring

the poet’s images opened and echoed so that colorful spots were colorful spots which blossomed into trout (& the poet caught these for dinner when not writing, he informed us)

but the man seemed dispirited as if all he had was text (the fish being eaten)

& spring

was but something to reference