The red parabola of Uluru
distantly reminds me of this tree.
The far-fetched simile
is not precise;
the poinciana's carmine canopy
shrugs off this artifice.
I substitute the metaphor of frock
for monolithic rock:
a ruffled, ruched extravaganza-
costume, a flamenco dancer
lured to the rendez-vous,
caparisoned for passion,
carmine as the jealous knife
of her inflamed assassin.
Again the living tree
eludes inept comparison,
masquerades as peacock
in alizarin, flaunting
cinquefoil eyes of petals,
one of which is cream
flecked crimson --
unexplained anomaly
mysterious as beauty.
Plumes, too weighty
to be raised
in breathtaking display,
fan in a resplendent train
trailing from a waist of sky:
a diva who aspires
to the empyrean, invisibly,
a startling efflorescence
that resists cliche.
Born of earth's desire,
the poincianas are as fresh
as fire, torch-bearers
bestriding stately avenues.
I sense their elegant pavane
transpose to midsummer's
slow burn, flaring
into rapturous cadenza.