She's given up on men -
it's a green ash across the river
she wants to wed.
Each October as its mantle blushes
 crimson with tassels draping epaulets
on umpteen shoulders,
her knees turn to putty, and a hummingbird heart
must carry them home.
Love is like that,
abundantly handling every handicap;
and while left brain raves at the madness,
this trans-kingdom infatuation,
Montague and Capulet,
implores her to reconsider such indiscretion,
her dreams
 simply leapfrog logic for Shangri-La:
tree and woman leaning into
endless entwine, their breath
a feast of sumptuous light.


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