As the seasons begin to turn
Like a dancer pirouetting headlong into infinity,
And the melted snow-flakes become blades of
Green, green grass;
Hurricanes have come and gone;
Like hurried house-guests,
Like buzzing bees;
Here only for both a literal
Figurative cup of coffee,
& then they are gone,
With the tip of a cap,
& scattered showers…
Off to visit another coastline.
Off to read some other novel,
And weep about the ending…
The bare banana tree and its now frayed leaves,
Stand and grow
At an acute angle,
As if they were growing off some jagged cliff,
Dangling fruit over the the hungry mouth of the
fuming foaming ocean,
Defying Poseidon, son of Cronus,
And sending him into a seismic tantrum that shakes even the mightiest of volcanoes.
This banana tree
Near a post where neighboring fences meet and commiserate about the
Emerging problem of the sprawling vines,
The taxonomy of whether there really is a market for bird food,
The occasional sparrow
Are the only ones who ever seem to benefit from it.
Probably because they have such a great view of
The elaborate birdhouses hanging from the eaves,
Equipped with water wheels and uninhabited lighthouses,
That are, besides being a beacon of light and hope for the most fortunate of travelers;
(As well as being a conversation piece, when company does indeed arrive)
Are constantly being
Showered with tiny seeds that never
Had the chance to actually become oaks;
Or radiant sunflowers,
Instead they exist only as offerings,
With the likes of
Frankincense and myrrh.
Every day the banana tree will inch closer to the ground,
…Storms or not
Reducing it’s angle
Becoming more of a sundial now then a fruit tree.
The fruit finding its way closer to earth as the roots beneath begin to snap slowly
Like ropes suspending a hero in an action movie;
Over lava, or bubbling acid.
Eventually they will snap,
Like most things;
The landing is everything.
The landing is everything…
And now it lays flat,
Having fought the good fight,
Not quite that of any storied beanstalk ,
But fraught with tension,
Fruit flies, none-the-less
Which should have been a sign of things to come.
Like a fallen soldier,
It’s yellow guns,
It’s yellow faces
Watching faraway fireworks now, from it’s shady corner of the yard,
Where it was the only tree that ever stood,
Accepting the fact that the medic is tending to other casualties;
Thinking all sorts of things,
But most importantly;
Wondering what is like to really be part of a forest.