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Nance Van Winckel

knowing it’s not
the right tool against
the tulips, the wild blooming
field. But still . . .
still loving its heft.
The blue morpho lowers a wing;
the sky comes down. I could
wound what’s wounded me;
that blade keeps its blaze. I’m the lengths
it would go, the aim of effort
in a tight little palm of promise.
To stay those blooms.
Tulips’ petals of tears
in the mind. Or to stand—
a minute? a lifetime?­—
as a threat until the threat’s
passed. To stand among these
sweet young grasses
just beginning to sprout
over the trouble
and through the heart.

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