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Redbud, Again

Every year there’s a poem
(a love poem) for
the redbud tree in our front yard

When you blossom, bees converge
humming through the air
Is that the poem?

Or is it distraction, how I missed the day
you opened into bright pure pink?

Or how I noticed (finally)
you at the door, framed above
whoever knocked, you as a
huge improbable hat?

Or is it how strangers gasp
during your bright brief reign
as queen of all trees?

Or is it that you do this every spring
whether I write you a poem or not?

One response »

  1. I love your love poem.
    And now I’m brave enough to admit- I have an affair with my crabapple every May.

    Reply

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