Christmas, 2003 / No. 11

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.