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FIRST PLACE
Ode to a Desert Willow
By Jeanette Oestermyer
Roswell, New Mexico
O, desert willow, your branches bare,
brown
late March and not a sign of bud or leaf,
your limbs reach up, abandoned faint motif,
no show of trumpet blooms, your summer gown.
May warmth of April rain caress your
soul,
as droplets seek your depths like gentle tears
that sparkle in sun’s first rays past the
dawn
as spring gives sway to summer, become whole.
Where sustenance for Hummingbird abounds
within your pink and blue laced trumpet gifts.
On tiny wings of gossamer they soar,
sip nectar, yet aflutter, gentle sounds.
The Purple Finch feasts there on seeds
bequeathed
of bounty deep within as beauty fades
regenerated buds – another set
of color and sweet nectar, twice released.
The Hummers feed till early autumn
days
when soon your treasures wither, drop and die,
dry seed-filled buds, next year intensify,
and you as lover, offer new bouquets.
Copyright (c) 2003 for
the author, all rights reserved. |
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