The being of a tulip in a room

Burnt orange taffeta, crisp and shining in the low lamplight
of a room that some say is small
but that seems to me to be spaciousness itself
this morning when winter bears down
on my eyelids, my stomach, compressing the light 
to this one point, this room, this tulip
with its roaring waves of flame, somehow serene,
somehow beyond naming,
the pointer to the space 
beyond and within space, the vastness in me, in you,
​when all the world obsesses with endings.