Your name means mountain ebony,
a certain Bauhinia,
common to coastal California,
but I call you moody.
You own my front yard,
dominate passages and pathways,
burgeoning weight of verdure or
leafy reaches for spider’s webby catch to
neighboring anchors–rose bush branch or
car parked side mirrors.
How you please my wispy-boned mother braked still,
the dog leashed to the wheel chair,
under a relenting shade,
cooling an afternoon zephyr.
In spring or autumn, sometimes winter too,
you boom-blossom burbling orchids,
delicate pink and purple hazy bells
that sometimes ring in summer too.
That’s when your leaves burst butterfly hearts
of hunter green fringed in lemon-lime edges, a
hovering, healthy, verdant vibrancy.
But on any given week without reason,
your leaves brown at the edges,
then all the way through,
baring skeletal bramble
like bones of the cancerous,
for the winter–or summer complaint,
marring the yard, baring the hidden wreckage behind you.
That’s when the pods hang dry in rusts and reds, seeds
to bake or burst, sturdy uterine drip packets,
like dry, pea pod icicle tears crying,
yet unyielding to the grip.
And the next week,
replaced by the brilliant buds as
poking penile plants peek through tightly tubed petals,
the softer side on a misty Monday.
When the mood strikes.
Which outfit to wear for today?
floundering in endless shift.
When anger is the coffee wake up, the split second fury,
there is nowhere to go from there–
escalation peaked at the start.
Chafing at my patience, she leaves the cafe wounded,
walks home to escape the noise, arrogance and
irritation incited by a felling crowd chopping pig.
Her stomach and head ache yet again.
She walks out, and I glower at my coffee.
She walks out, and I fail to trace her steps.
She walks out, and I grouse at you like a heat-seeking
missile finding the volcano erupted.
I did not find her.
Anger found me.
She walked alone.