The Michelia Yunnanensis half open buds
are pure white against the dark,
that I can’t seem to draw the curtains.
And I can’t decide how it is
that a tree’s small blooms
can outshine the moon.
Perhaps it’s its purity,
its proliferance of bud.
A kind of defense against the night,
maybe
a protest against dusk’s tendency
to draw everything in,
blur definition.
And what is the poet’s take
on blossoms as bright as a
full moon?
Perhaps it’s simply,
like the birds singing before dawn,
heralding the light
blossoms that defy the darkness,
that stand up defined
against a twilight sky,
could be considered,
with imagination,
to imitate the Word
before the page,
man before time,
the garden before Eve,
in the promise of the possible
eventuating,
the full-blown flush before
corruption.
Heaven distilled into a bloom.
Ana Lisa de Jong
Living Tree Poetry
August 2021
Living Tree Poetry 