My azalea is there.
I had forgotten a summer of a thousand years ago,
in an earthenware pot, with the bare branches reaching out to bright sunshine.
My azalea is there. On the cold
terrace, nestled in the mist,
with unexpected smiles stubbornly blooms pale pink
flickering green fire fireworks of its leaves.
My azalea is there.
Absurdly flourished in a time not his own,
a drop of spring on a foggy day litany of faded.
My azalea is there.
to remind me that anything is possible.
I had forgotten a summer of a thousand years ago,
in an earthenware pot, with the bare branches reaching out to bright sunshine.
My azalea is there. On the cold
terrace, nestled in the mist,
with unexpected smiles stubbornly blooms pale pink
flickering green fire fireworks of its leaves.
My azalea is there.
Absurdly flourished in a time not his own,
a drop of spring on a foggy day litany of faded.
My azalea is there.
to remind me that anything is possible.
the
02/12/1999
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