Tulipomania

And who on earth would blame them,

those Dutch merchants prepared

to give up everything they owned

for the pearl of great price

that is a tulip bulb?

What house wallowing in canal mud,

like a tall ship marooned in harbour,

could hold its own, however secure

its moorings, against the ground-breaking

tulip egg that incubates in spring,

sprouting shoots of exotic plumage:

blue-red feathers rippled with pink,

streaked with tangerine?

And who, with his priorities in place,

would hesitate to exchange

his very home for the tulip that leaves

no blood-red trail of perfume

but proceeds to make its bed

in the tactile gloss of satin sheets?

What whaleboned gown, what silk

chemise, slithering to the boards

of a lead-windowed bedroom,

could compare with this stranger

bearing arcane knowledge from

a stream-splashed crag in Tien Shan

or the snow-melts of Tashkent?

Who wouldn't want to fade out

in a blaze of glory? Who wouldn't

sacrifice himself on an altar

of urn-shaped tulips, a pyre

Who wouldn't be the better

for the lesson of those petals,

dropping off like share prices,

precious metal values,

leaving time to meditate on fortune,

speculate on loss?