the last of march has skitted away
like a jackrabbit, the vestige of grey swept
clean by rains to uncover the cerulean;
but the tree still dons its winter look—
black etchings against a tincture of blue,
some blossoms fallen, carried away
by the wind into small pools of puffy tufts,
ready to be cradled into garbage trucks
with bristles and brown, and woody twigs
crowned by clusters of snowy bracts,
that look down to watch the pink wash,
slowly filter through and stain
the alligator hide, until it turns
a stunning autumnal red—
a telling
bark of the dogwood.


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