Mordecai Otieno

A Wreath Of Tulips (To My Mother)

My mother dresses her hair in a wreath
Not of roses or thorns or thorny roses
but an opulent garden of tulips
whereupon virtue is an ageless tenant
and mirth a constant visitor
Betwixt those flawlessly wrought petals,
that fragrant foliaged labyrinth
of scarlet and yellow misgivings
is sired a glow so bright
it bereaves the blind of sight