My love is like the red, red berry
oh, no, that’s not how it goes
but the profligate rouge of this creekside cherry
serves notice to the red, red rose.
With apologies to Mr. Burns.
looked again
but it was real
at the tippy-top of the branch
the promise!
the wink!
the come-hither of autumn!
O, blessed rouge!
Did the neighbors think it strange that the weird old lady with the camera
(that would be me)
danced in a circle, druid-like, around the puny maple in her back yard?
Not any more.
And, no, I never over-react.