It's April Now

A Poem by Ernest Hilbert

Last night, a thunderstorm scoured the small hours. 
This morning, clean winds accelerate the clouds. 
The tulips flash so sharply in the sun
They hardly seem to me a natural sight;
The wincing pastel heat of lemon light
Appears plastic, fake, surreally overdone,
The bobbing stalks like hydra heads that crowd
Their colors into an onslaught. The bright flowers
Struggle, sagging, so rich from hours of rain
They’re sullen now, as if they would be free 
From the beauty that bends them down, a burden gained
When they become what they were meant to be.

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Fields with Tulips, Claude Monet, 1886

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