The anatomy of a tulip told by someone who knows nothing about flowers

A great number of tulips, used to convey an inconceivable variety yet, at the same time, finite.
Photo by Leonardo Iheme on Unsplash

Nurtured in quiet, the ripples in puddles tapped by falling bloom
prompt the opening in my forehead to accept white swirling
clouds descending from another plane so that my eyes glow with light
and I speak that light to you so that, if you understand,
you can speak your light to me,

Not with my own power do I speak it, my body's composition
incapable of traveling  a significant number of steps from its location 
to the sun,
 but I'll make an attempt to have my mindscape shaped and nurtured, consuming
murmurs of saints, looking at whales at length, smelling
the ocean at empty beaches, taking in the leaves rustling,
hearing a cello,
feeling dew touch my feet before the ground notices it's summer,
licking ice cream from a cone, I'll attempt to conceive past what I perceive
to see if anything exists beyond perception,

With that I ask, "Who goes there beyond the veil and why didn't you
answer when I called to you?,"
small as I am, I'm every bit a universe, don't you see?

Mornings, rotations, revolutions, both significant and insignificant alike,
we sit like dust mites under a couch to be vacuumed by greater forces,
despite the greatness of our minuteness, we  consider and have to feel
somehow thinking it matters to be loved,
the choice being to accept there's none, to be perpetually aware of space,
but struggle against space and elements,
crushing with their whelm,
because lunch must be eaten and errands run,
the list must be ticked until no ticking's left,
battling against tick tocks till tick tocks overtake me,
to be swirling dust inhaled and coughed out by rabbits, and beggars, and royals,
but unaware as I'm unaware now,
no different from a rock or a rocking chair or a basket,
impactful just the same,

a crowd roars in a stadium in the distance,
far more enlightened and present.

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