A small alcove of trees, pink and
mauve and purple and white. The
latter days of their efflorescence.

A small alcove, so when the wind’s
plangent voice sings mysteriously through
dying petals flutter and fall as snow.

A small alcove, brimming with dismembered
ghosts of incomprehensible beauty. The
fading sun lavishing them with praise.

A small alcove; nature’s enigmatic theology
of the human heart.