Summer’s piercing heat and light
let those myrtles thrive and bloom
upon their highest boughs
in summer’s ardent blaze,
with sprays from swelling fountains.
What made a flower an all-out tree,
coated as dark-bronzed skin
in fragrant, suave, shiny silk
and both fluent and curved in love—
like a joining of a tongue and wine,
all along just as smooth to touch
where cinnamon and cream and tan
intermingle round a slender trunk
each one standing
so close beside its mate,
never truly single—
unless cut apart.
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