Tulips. Central Asia.

The irrepressible lark fills the warm air with a joyous trill,
the lusty grass gulps the sun in,
red headscarves and silk dresses burn against
the pristine verdant hills.
Tulips bleed onto the road
in bunches, clutched by dirty-faced urchins,
and on the back seats of dust-covered cars, or
woven between the spokes of old jingling bikes
upon which olive-skinned boys
with almond-shaped eyes,
carefree, boisterous
ride past.
By the side of the road
loom
mulberry trees
with the stumps of their chopped-off arms
that haven’t yet shot into the sky
the new arrows of branches and leaves.
The earth is still heavy and moist,
the brooks are still ringing with cold crystal
young girls on the roadside hide timid smiles behind their narrow mahogany palms