A crèche of
red hooded
muscle berries
unfolding like kings–
Gaspar and Balthasar,
flanked by Christmas
candles, mirror-doubled
and swelling
to show off
their black
speckled hearts
like the dots in
the red rolls of caps
in the pistols
we fired under
the porch of our
house in Wyoming.
Our ears rang
for hours and the
smell of smoke
stuck to our clothes.

2 responses to “Tulips

  1. A poem that starts and ends with a winter shiver. Makes me want to zip up my coat.

    But, a glance over my shoulder, brings me back. There’s no snow out my Portland window and the sun, the Sun?, is shining. (Just wait, just wait. The gray will return. Just wait.)

    • Craig Brandis (aka Burl Whitman)

      Thanks Alan. I’m grateful for sun and for close readers of poetry! I’m going to run out and get the mail while the sun is out…wait…too late!

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