reaching for the summer sun these many years,
you did not ask to spend your life
beneath that tree
beside the porch.
you might have hoped to raise a family
or write a book,
or even be the President.
I do not love you for your aspirations.
with crisp sun pouring through the leafless oak,
you offer what you have:
a feast of orchid trumpets,
bold enough to raise the dead.
Faithful. lavender azalea,
I love you for your patient greening.
I celebrate your trembling tribute to the risen Christ: