Enamel Trees Longing Ago
The orange blossoms fill my native place.
They fill it every year with white perfume.
The scent has piquant yellow at heart’s space,
The hearts held out bouquet-like, as a plume
On green wing branches where the mockingbird
Might sing. The song and fragrance might combine
And make vanilla fragrance almost heard,
Contraltos wafting through the grove, more fine
Than that, though, since it carries Guerlain green
Of leaves along the breeze. Chanel of petals sends
An unheard color through the seër scene,
A prophecy of orange that ascends.
A white wood house is set in front of trees
Awaiting wings of black and goldsmith bees.
~ Phillip Whidden
