Poem for Wednesday, April 24, 2013

Lagerstroemia

You, under dirt and lime, still speak to me
through sudden startles of wind and the bottoms
of my feet. Like this:

Angels are dressed as bread bums, you say.

Don't forget to bless your food, and one time,

How are my prized crape myrtles?
Are they clumping pink or white?

See, I learned about you through porch stories
those humid afternoons when I breathed in
intervals between cloud bursts and swatted away
the bumblebees.

Again, you speak. The wind screams against
everything then stops to reform. I nod down at you
in complete concurrence:

I will not take love lightly when it comes.

You were born in the summer
just like your flowers.