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by Karin Salzmann

If I could be a flower I’d be a French tulip. Cut us from the garden, put us in a vase. Our long stems, over days, bend, dip, turn, bow. Our flowers open, open wide, full of life even as one petal drops, and then another. Finally our stems bear up only the pistils and stamen. With the pollen we can paint moustaches on the upper lips of small boys, hold up a mirror to their delight.