I am not able to find words I want to share about the tulips in the yard today, this perfect tulip, perfectly pink. They are a song without words, a mute offering that speaks more clearly to the heart than all of speaking.
Which sounds like a line from Rilke. Which leads me to these lines from Rilke:
But listen to the breath the unbroken message that creates itself from the silence.
The tulips are a message, confided to the inner ear. The inner eye, if there is such a thing. They are a Friday poetry. A pause before the weekend rain. A breath before the next sentence picks up the conversation where, before the breathtaking pinkness of them, their pink quintessence, it left off.
image: Christie B. Cochrell, Pink Tulip