Branches filled supple space of canvas and
hung their heads back down towards where they came.
Those big waxy leaves could have
passed as store-bought,
Only the strongest rays crept through-
A patch of night hugged Bermuda,
Casting a shadowy skirt for the breeze swayed trunk
fat with greenness
When the flowers came, we knew
Never to pick one.
Our hands shouldn't tell
something so beautiful when to die-
We ourselves could never understand beauty
As a mean of survival.
Those succulent cashmere baskets blushed
And were cradled by plastic leaves.
They would never know loneliness-
Not as it felt to be the last leaf on the skeleton in gray skies
No, they would be long gone before then.
Back to the dirt
And sucked up through roots,
Waiting to be reborn in the warm forgiving days
Of sweet scented air
And nature's choir