Jacaranda

By Michael Warren

 

Purple on powder blue, it’s hard to tell

where jacaranda ends and sky begins:

across the morning haze, a single bell

summons the faithful to confess their sins.

It’s hard to tell where living seems to end

and death begins.  The tendrils ache

towards the blue, and move and blend

in silence with the wind – for living’s sake

they die, and flake by secret flake

carpet the earth which once they canopied.

The azure tent above shakes in the breeze:

behind and beyond the village bell

I almost hear a sound – it’s hard to tell –

a memory of distant deep blue harmonies.

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