the dead tulips

it was a warm, sweet sunday morning
unfolding from invisibility as if hazy
bells were singing everywhere, and waiting for
the bus in the fresh peat moss air i saw
the yellow and red tulips in the mound at
the bottom of the green rental office sign;
someone stomped all over them during the night
tulips that were so long and slender, red
and yellow crystal cups of sunlight in ruins;
some had their heads ripped off and scattered
some lay on their sides in the warm peat moss
still alive, only their slender necks beautifully broken;
must be the blind power someone feels in the
act of killing things fundamentally fragile.
i felt helpless until a soaking rain came later
and finished the job, so gently and mercifully.