Yalp Rof

under the shade of an old

abandoned tree, its dry leaves

sprinkling on us like soft rain

in the clandestine area

behind the janitor's building

at the park where two

pathetic tulips grew.

One was white like a dove's feathers

And so soft it almost shocked your fingers

And the other like fine lace with a red

Dot centered on one leaf, as if marked

By its partner.

They grew like us,

Under the weight of concrete, full of color,

Not torn or eaten away, erect, un-moved

And crushed under the cruel weight of love.