The Grapevine Art & Soul Salon

Black Tulips

In my early spring garden
full of tall-stemmed buds
black tulips at first resemble others
compact and green, concealing colors.

A brilliant display of orange
erupts among their large-cupped cousins
clad, on closer look
in swirls of yellow and pink
breathtaking debut beside the birdbath.

Two round gray pots hold
a dozen whites in one, and in the other
a cluster called Queen of the Night
rare and without hint
of what moved Nature to try
in flowers this uncommon hue.

The early ones arrive without fuss
welcome and white and lovely.
I wait on the latecomers until
dark depths ooze
through green petals and stain them black.

In Manet's painting of a gypsy
playing guitar, lively blacks compel
a long look, and so do these
flowers of darkness named for a queen
in Mozart's The Magic Flute
whose voice enters the ear
like black tulips strike the eye:
dramatic, ravishing, rendering
all else mute.

I think of Rilke's love of darkness
from which we come
into the world and then return
taking with us
not nothing

but all the colors we have
yearned for, blushed and bled
and burned for in our time.