The Tulips

It rained all night.
I picked the last of the tulips.
They were tangled in webs
of red and yellow.
A few stood tall,
as if they were never touched.
It was a battlefield of fog and rain.
The vase was pure transparency.
Allowing a few.
I left the rest to the morning glow.
I too have lain
wounded by storms.
Then someone brought me in,
until I was straight and tall,
and could return something of myself.
For the tulips,
it is their great beauty,
comforting me on the table.
From myself, for them,
I return words of gratitude
in poems.