under the purple panicles
of the Chaste tree so loaded
with blossom this year
it requires air forces of bees
several hours every day
to carry off its burden of pollen
the quiet roar of so many wings
finally starts to levitate the tree
until it sways back and forth
like a body dangling from a tree
or a Sufi dancer’s head thrown back
spinning in the ecstasy of love
while the blue hibiscus blooms away
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