Plum

Trees so pink
they seem to hold no leaves,
                                   no green at all.
It is as if this May
I became
suddenly sympathetic to exuberance.

I call them plum because of their blush,
consider my assessment of their beauty
                                               above reproach.
Every time I see one I feel lyrical.

I watch for what will happen next, 
                            knowing there’s a plot.
When blossoms die, as they are bound to,
                                                         trees go green.

My friend who knows her flowering trees
told me they’re actually crabapple. 
            The fruit, therefore,
will not be sweet.

—ELANA WOLFF

(Originally published Christmas, 2003.)