It's that time of year

Jacarandas in September

Maiden blushes, pubertal bashfulness.
There is no hint of passion,
nor clue that in a little while
the world will wear a purple wedding gown.
Poets will be led to the altar
and wed for a few months –
some on their knees in despair –
then abandoned  for nine months.

Where do jacarandas go, when they go?

They are not angels.
They seem to thrive in their floral
ephemerality;
hordes of ephemera with a
a memory more sure than elephants’.

They come back as priests whose religion
seems to be, simply,
Be.

In September language starts as a stammer of colour,
the script of Spring; a sliver of imagery.
Before long they are a violet song,
a palette of eloquence;
a river speaking in tongues of men and seraphs.

I would join their faith
if I knew how to embrace
the communion of the falling and the fallen.