The storm-twisted tulips,
still beautiful in their bluster-battered state,
unknowing of false springs and Tempestas’s fury.
Had they any warning, hatches might have stayed battened.
Or perhaps no caution could have stilled the blooming,
petals bursting forth, reaching for the sun—
hands seeking blessings from the God of March,
oblivious to the spear concealed
behind his warm, light-filled smile,
as he plots his final violent campaign
before welcoming the festival season.
The Truth About Tigers 
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