In weeks with no rain,
the lime tree and roses sip
rinse water from the shower,
as eloquent in their distraught and drooping silence
as a languishing invalid in a romance novel.
Meanwhile the bougainvillea,
that strapping hero of the garden,
shamelessly flaunts a riot of red bracts,
and the clock vine winks back,
allowing coy orange starbursts
to peep from her curtain of green.
It is December, and we poets must be brave.
Bake cookies and trim the tree,
sip eggnog at the holiday masquerade,
but if you happen to see,
as you sign and stamp
one more Christmas card,
a monarch butterfly go by,
take in the flutter-dance
like Renoir instead of Wordsworth.
Flaunt your own finery
and wink back at this season’s
swaggering would-be suitor.
He doesn’t need to know
what you are saving and savoring,
that you are a succulent
with poems in your cells.
Image created by Jennifer Prince and shared under Creative Commons License BY-NC-ND 4.0