A Tribute to the Wild Azaelas

I follow the scent

of air sagging

with sweetness.

I find them

In deep shadow

under the pine trees,

great mounds of them.

They blare color like trumpets--

pink, yellow and white merge

on fluted edge,

and furl outward,

opening to the

ostentation

of pistil and stamen

tipped with green.

.

I gather masses of their savage beauty.

They refuse

to be arranged in vases

They cling to their wild intractability

The rain shadow that makes

their profusion possible

ends at my land.

Every spring I am blessed

with their untamed and

rash extravagance--

They who have never known shame.