New paints, swift strokes, blind hopes, quick breaks, lost cause,

faith gone, now found again, true eyes, bright dreams —
all these things ground the image in the pause
that the heart takes when the universe screams:
I loved tulips in Amsterdam, and now
I love them just as much, despite the loss
of contact with their utopic stemmed glow;
as the world does turn, constant do I toss:
The soldiers collapsed, identities crossed–
one hand was a gavel, the other was
a tulip, red and ripe, with dew well glossed,
its fragrance eternal: is, will be, was:
That's the hand I play, a full house of petals;
my winnings are priceless, not priced out by medals.
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