I parked ‘neath
the golden trumpet tree
that grows in my parents’ yard.
Rains fell and winds gusted
flowers plummeted
from the tree
like tears.
On the wet, fertile grass
or hard, sterile concrete
they landed;
all but one.
It rested on my windshield
abiding the quick, fierce ballyhoo,
its brilliant petals dimmed and drenched.
It greeted me, as I prepared to drive away,
its yellowness
reviving
in the warmth
of the sun that had broken through
storm clouds
to shine a ray on the
single golden trumpet
that the tree gifted
to me.
(Photo source: Unsplash.com)
Pen and Keys 