Trees so pink
they seem to hold no leaves,
no green at all.
It is as if this May
I became
suddenly sympathetic to exuberance.
I call them plum because of their blush,
<
consider my assessment of their beauty
above reproach.
Every time I see one I feel lyrical.
I watch for what will happen next,
knowing there’s a plot.
When blossoms die, as they are bound to,
trees go green.
My friend who knows her flowering trees
told me they’re actually crabapple.
The fruit, therefore,
will not be sweet.