Palm Sunday Valentine

My spectral pomegranate tree's half-dead
And yet it's shouting out orange hosannas
And though it's cursed it blesses me
Each year with the pure uselessness
Of a color not seen anywhere else on earth
To simple chemistry must have been added
Some magic formula now forgotten
Like the blue in the glass of the old windows
A stain of heaven on the lady's dress
I know you can see it's just red-into-orange
Like patience becoming courage
But I can tell you want to touch it
Put your fingers in its wounds
Pull the whole tree down on your head