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?