The tree reaches out of my childhood,
incendiary portent of summer,
burning cloud, red harbinger of thirst;
brilliant mirage of youth hovering
hypnotically, limbs weaving silken
Eastern choreographies...
Temple-offerings, the petals bloom
and flare in heat's blind glare,
dragons breathing fire into the canopy.
Swarms of scarlet sepals mouth
a mantra over me; cicada timbals magnify
the drought-pangs of parched earth.
I crouch among huge buttress roots
beseechingly, a small tree-frog, throat
working for the green rain that will
moisten me, dissolve drought's curse.
Poinciana
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2003
Свидетельство о публикации №103092500142
Свидетельство о публикации №103092500142
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