Wednesday, October 31, 2018


As spring breathes towards summer,
They come.
Hinting, hinting, at dreams of bluest purple,
They come.
Sweeping the skyline, lovely as a promise,
They come.

They are the punctuation
Between bottlebrush and Christmas bush;
Dancing with the golden brown of silky oaks,
And the bright mirage of flame trees,
They come,
And we smile at their coming.

Sing, flowers, sing!
Sing of the quiet places,
The shadowed and secluded,
The rest that summer needs,
Refreshment of the weary:
Twilight at noonday
In your gentle, purple haze.

Each year returning
You bless our bright Novembers,
We lift our eyes from scurry
And pause in our great hurry
As you grace our teeming city
With your flowers and your fronds

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