A palm tree waves to me
like a woman’s long hair in a breeze.
Bougainvillea, never satisfied, has climbed
the small tree next to it, then the cactus,
red in places reserved for the powder
of clouds, the mockingbird nest.
Who can blame it? Across the way
a pine tree humbly accepts the assault
and red claims branches that lift
with prayers from hands of stigmata.
This famous color invades dreams
when they’re shadows of gray and black.
Film noir keeps the lid on tight,
hides Carmen’s skirt in the habanera,
When red comes, and it will, open the gate,
start the music, smell the grape before you drink.