Tulips,

The color of sweetened cream.

Delicate, like the whisper,

Lulling you into dreams.

 Burning crimson,

Cutting through chilled air,

Precise on a frozen branch,

It lands as if to dare.

A dirt path,

Rarely walked or known,

But by the tanned farmer and donkey,

Selling his everything for others to own.

Maybe tulips, cardinals, and paths

Do not seem out of the ordinary.

But they are beauty, individuality, and humbleness,

What poetry taught me is extraordinary.