the azaleas are blooming, lurid pink and shameless
they remind me of Tallahassee
of a tiny blue cottage and an orange cat that belonged
to no one but seemed to like my company
in that other life
now, in this botanic garden, where plants purr
under the soft feet of bees and age-stained stone
endures in dank corners—amid the gothic of it all
and the hot pink azaleas, I find a peace that is unearned
in the presence of a stricken tree, split open
and exposed, hollowed out but clinging to life by the roots
those who tend to the garden have tenderly propped
this old tree, which now rests, almost horizontal
on four wooden posts: the guardians have also placed
a neat rope fence around the tree’s hollowness
to preserve the dignity of age and injury
among the azaleas, the camelias, the soaring hope
and now, the hollow tree has no choice but to live.
–
Jude Marr (he, him) is a Pushcart-nominated trans poet and an editor with Animal Heart Press. His poetry has appeared in many journals and anthologies, and his next book, Silence Will Not Save Us, should see daylight in 2027. He now lives in Coimbra, Portugal.