pink dogwood and wisteria

conversation with a Bradford Pear tree

I was not bred
for sadness,
(she said)

so when on that brief day in May
you were afraid
to turn your head
down my alleyway

fearing that the sheer weight of my blossoms
pressing outward into the universe
would overwhelm your heart

I smiled--
so strange you are

your hairs like sweet stamens
catching the sun--I think of petals
as your body unfolds

unthinking as mine does
fresh as the whiteness
that settles like a flock
on my bony twigs

Now, even in brown August
my breath is starry
like yours is, in your lover's eyes

and even now
the storm of my blooming
that pulled you shivering
into its vortex

has not released you

windblown tulips

fly

look up
seven sleek arrows
in a ragged V
cross west
in June

look swiftly
as the round glow
of sunset
reddens
their breasts

and that brief
liquid fire
lights you
with the sun's blood
reflected

sheltered
by the warm
first strokes
of darkness
on your neck

take this
last light
into your veins
and fly
without dying