Crape myrtle, II

Heat-loving crape myrtle,
Its early-summer blossoms
Shed their tiny petals
Snow-like in the verdant grass.

Reaching for the knobby
Branch, I pull a
Cluster of its sweet
Fragrant softness, to cut it

Clean with my knife,
Which I close and put
Back in my pocket.
Burying my nose deep

In its sweetness
I draw deeply into
My lungs its spirit:
A soft aroma, drawn

From far beneath
My feet, deep in the
Red clay by roots
I cannot fathom.

Knowing of only one
To share the moment with,
I carry the tender shoots
Past the Roses and

The Hostas, the Basil
And the Cilantro, the
Lemon Balm and the
Lavender into the kitchen

Where she washes
The supper dishes,
Her blonde curls skimming
Her neck with such tenderness

As would make Solomon
Blush. Presenting my
Offering, I hope only
For her smile.


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