The tulip’s petals hold a white so pure
Perfection cannot show the dew. Each edge,
Ideal within its curve, is like a sure
White ojee, or a prophet’s sword-like pledge
In Amritsar. The tulip’s petals hold
A purity geometry of shapes
Can only wish for, more like martyr’s gold,
White gold but really white as linen drapes
Inside the Holiest of Holies. Chromes
Imagined by a virgin golden mind
Might come to fingers covering sacred domes
Beyond the scope of Moscow, more aligned
With spirit than with thought, though thought might be
A seraphim wing’s serendipity.
~ Phillip Whidden