Pot of Dying Tulips
The leaves are curled
and rise to thin chartreuse peaks
counterpoint to petals
curved like purple gourds
scoops for withheld water
now too late.
Yellow stamens stand erect
while pollen laden pistils
droop in mustard tiredness.
Crisp and brittle
twisted into grotesque purple stars
the blossoms
keep a singular beauty
like my mother’s hands—
lined, veined, worn, and beautiful.
