Camellias droop heavy,
drunk by eleven
on the pollen-soaked air.
God let it rain.
+++
The terror of bees
stalks my son’s dreams
but morning begs him
to run outside.
Brave, to know your fear
and not let it control you.
+++
In the woods,
the dead trees also
seem to rise sunward.
+++
O there is sadness
even in this light
+++
Vault of poplars
seventy feet high
suspends the green
shattered splendor.
+++
My daughter hurls stones
into the creek.
Fists of pink
flowers punch
blue sky.
+++
Ice cream
the color of trees
dusted yellow.
+++
And now evening in folds
descends through itself.
–Fire: Ash Wednesday to Pentecost
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