By chance, I discovered you
in the little oasis of the clay pot
where the parrot feather of a miniature palm tree grew.
At a glance, I thought
another palm had shot
up overnight. You were both
odd flames of the same green
fire. Only, you could leap breath-
takingly high, with wings for fronds,
antennae keen-
er than those of a TV set.
But I wondered what had led you astray,
what there was on my auspicious balcony to whet
your appetite
with such a wide array
at hand. At a smaller hour
I knew. You had hurtled here to die,
snug in the bed of your tiny, tropical bower.
At first, no dew gleamed clearer
than the eye
that mirrored nature’s passing.
Now it clouds as the sky clouds.
Your shanks, once green as the greenest spring,
are turning brown and brittle
as the crowds
of leaves, and if you sing,
you chirrup such a high-pitched song
it carries out of sound, and if you spring,
you spring where summer was going
all along.
