In February 1637, tulip mania crashed
and the exotic flower fell from the hands
of Dutch royalty down into the swampy lands
where the Calla Lilies reigned. The colourful tulip
became a commoner and multiplied until
its beauty mundane.

Between the stems of the white lilies,
the old, slimy cursed prince hopped
from lily pad to lily pad catching flies
on this magnetic tongues. He could
not see the top of the Calla Lilies—
he only glimpsed at their smooth petals,
their untouched spadices.

From the muddy waters, the frog would
watch the bees fly from lily to lily
moving pollen. Their golden stripes
like the noble robes of tulip kings
glowed. The frog made his house
from rotten tulip stems and slept upon
their broken petals, their colours washed
away by spring rains, though he dreamed!
He dreamed! He would fly

between the Calla Lilies, there was an air of
loneliness. The bees would come, but they
would soon leave and the lilies wished they
stayed for tea. So, when the frog finally jumped
and landed straight in the spathe of a young lily,
he looked out over the rest of the bog, saw
all the other flowers and told her
he would never leave.

And together they grew old. But by the next winter,
his love had wilted. As he marched solemnly to
her funerary pyre, holding her stem so gracefully,
she suddenly transfigured and blossomed again,
now red, red, red! And she shone like the sun
over the freshly fallen snow. And the frog
stayed with her, never leaving from the heat
of her fiery beacon to heaven. Slowly he whispered—
so only the gods could hear—

“told you so, I never lie.”