The Summer of Camellias

THE SUMMER OF CAMELLIAS Someone dropped Or dropped by itself on the street The flower of camellia.

This has been a strange summer: trees flowering far too early, fish fleeing the sea.

That camellia tree, look, it is on fire, its burnt pink flowers falling down on the hot earth below.

Who will then bury those silenced voices?

The smell of seared pages meanwhile thickening the air, ink to ash, black to gray.

A lonely woman plants a camellia garden in memory of a favorite scene from a favorite book: a ballroom, scented lanterns, an enchanting, budding romance and the camellia plant, a gracious witness in the corner.

On a warm spring morning, the woman tends to her camellia bushes, admiring ones in origami bloom, mourning those fallen, fragmenting islands adrift on a decaying sea.

Their hearts, still brilliant suns the petals still orbiting around and around like faithful planets: for gravity does not stop, even in death.

The camellia drops, the camellia is dropped, she wonders about the question no more.

She cradles the camellia inside her palm, that soft nest of flesh and bone: a beating, quivering heart, more alive than ever, encompassing within it all of life’s truths and more. ~