Bauhinia,
the delicate pink orchids
that blossom each spring
cheer the grog of the morning
march to distances
far and few
from your branches.
The blistering sun’s alchemy
or the blustery grey
of the day–alters.
Drifting and burgeoning,
transforming and contrasting
as my moods,
sometimes filled, lagrimal
of rusted red seed pod,
feet and fingers of them
like stultified streams
of leaking fear frozen
brown and red in mid drip.
It’s then that your leaves wither
at the edges,
blackened and burned.
The weather turned for the worse,
your leaves round hearts
of butterfly green,
full and wide bloom.
But when the winter wears away,
your flowering bauhinian
bells and stamen
reach for my notice
as I breeze past
to travels once again
drawing me from you.
Awesome, I so want one of these.
It is the rattiest, most beautifully sensitive and sensuous tree I have had the pleasure of knowing, the centerpiece of my home’s face.