Ode to the Japanese Lilac Tree in Front of the West Entrance of the Hospital

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

before proceeding

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.