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  grows leans

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,

Since squirrels

&

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

Gold

Frankincense and myrrh.

Every day the banana tree will inch closer to the ground,

…Storms or not

Reducing  it’s angle

Each and

Every day.

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,

A life,

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,

Never drawn.

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.