Urban jungle, yes literally, not metaphorically,
though maybe more like a ghetto forest.
Leading the determined coalition, is one sleek fox,
low lying, white tipped tail, like a log on legs.
Following fellow fox is great black bear, also
in forceful forward motion, head level, purpose
in his gait and onward gaze, alongside the girl.
She, decked in tartan plaid skirt, red cap
and sweater, strides along friend bear
among the graffiti’d concrete landscape
peppered with spare thin trees, once patterned
for park pleasure seekers and outdoor fun.
In ruins now, no one in the neighborhood
respects the land, so the conservationists
have taken up extreme measures for the cause:
the children and the animals, who will inherit
the earth when the mature of the human species
go extinct, march forth to the city council meeting
to state their peace: “Who will speak for the trees
and the bees before they’re completely gone?”
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?
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.