You’re a late bloomer this year,
perfuming the air
with your white blossoms
in early July.
I pause for a moment
on the sidewalk
to inhale the light scent
through the revolving door.
When a gentle breeze blows,
you sprinkle the petals like confetti
on the shrubbery, the flower beds,
the grass, and a white marble statue
of the Virgin Mary.
You stretch your arms as high as you can,
to reach the patients on the third floor,
to show them your healing green,
to remind them that your branches
were black and naked and barren
just a few months ago,
that the leaves always turn brown
and plummet to the ground,
dead in a bitter wind,
but they always return.