the Chaste tree blooms
black spikes against the silver light
but by morning purple returns
to the flowers green to the leaves
it is a tree again and not an omen
a guffaw hurled into the night sky
fragrant and full of longing
a sentimentalist like spring
who keeps his day job as a tree
but at night awakens under stars
calling and calling to the far reaches
of space and light to accept
this pure token of esteem
and give him back his dream
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