In my garden gambol <br />green beetles <br />by twos and threes, <br /> <br />who sing to High Tulips <br />blushing pink <br />in harmonies. <br /> <br />Flushed, <br />adoration-framed, <br />they rainbow through <br />emotions gained <br />from beetle songs <br />choir sung. <br /> <br />I part the foliage clef <br />to observe what enchantment deft <br />musical beetles pant <br />to flowered plants <br />swaying in the green. <br /> <br />I am transfixed <br />in this gloaming, <br /> <br />where songs stroke <br />the airy night; <br /> <br />uplifting <br />tulip bulbs- <br />rhapsodied <br />and honey dewed. <br /> <br />On me then <br />euphonies: <br /> <br />Beatles sing <br />because we don't, <br />to balm absence's pain. <br /> <br />They sing our song <br />of high praise; <br />because we won't, <br /> <br /> <br />for tulips, <br />gardens, soil and loam. <br /> <br />We are the children <br />who've lost <br />the songs <br />which were mother's songs <br />now vague; <br />distant, <br />gone. <br /> <br />Our ears <br />deaf now, <br />withdrawn. <br /> <br />The beetles stand in for us <br />sing our songs <br />in their metallic <br />greens, <br /> <br />arpeggios falling to <br />my journal page <br />explaining <br />why they sing <br /> <br />to tulip bulbs, <br />flushed <br />on the green: <br /> <br />all quiet now- <br />each bulb <br />reminded- <br />they are loved.<br /><br />Lonnie Hicks<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/flushed/
