The Judas Tree

 

Tucked between my opened pages,

a redbud leaf. Crisp as a poppadom, disc-flat

like an ancient map of the earth.

 

What park or garden it came from

I could not tell; nor whether it was plucked or fell.

All that is unremembered now.

 

Held in the gaze of my mind’s eye

gently spreading boughs, like undrawn sidearms, weep

pink blooms direct from dark gouged bark.

 

Its need for water slight, new life

springs from old wood, sap rising unseen year on year

making most of drought resistance.

 

When treachery stalks the streets

remorseless, this canopy is bold, defiant.

Shelter where all may hang their love.

 

i. 2026 

Twelfth night: recipe for the morning after

 i. 2026

 

The work of running water

Returning from the Day of the Dead

So here you are, landed,

brimful of holiday.

Yet buried still – dead weight

among the souvenirs – 

lurks a primal fear, hand-painted,

 

of one day being left alone.

 

It is a drag anchor,

has held you back too long.

 

Be well, I say. Be well.

 

Albeit fierce in its embrace

let anguish slip away.

 

Life’s a descent on scree, mostly.

Planting both feet sideways,

one hand clutches at stony ground

 

the other skyward flails

reaching for direction.

The headlong balance of braking

 

and velocity.

                    Only know

those empty places, with you in them,

shall always bloom.

 

Be well. Be well. Be well.

 

xi. 2025