"But I have always thought that these tulips must have had names. They were red, and orange and red, and red and orange and yellow, like the ember in a nursery fire of a winter's evening. I remember them."
— Neil Gaiman

as tulips do
the tulip doesn’t know the word pink,
but lives it every day, warm
as the inside of a mouth
its petals don’t know their name
but the inner-breath of lovers
repeats it over and over,
like veins
it has never heard of the word bulb
yet from the dark earth
it pushes its heart ---
as headdress,
as opened light
Nicolette Marguerite van der Walt
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