Red plum

1. She blooms late, or not at all, as an icy winter can cut her short. Her blossom’s like a peach or apricot, small, graceful, and fragile. She doesn’t care for the spring; its giddiness doesn’t suit her austerity. I see her green on green and don’t realize she’s a plum tree. 2. She creates her own spring, blossoming to relieve the dreary cold. Rouge is a gift for her suffering. Her endurance invites a deeper meaning. Drops of water freeze on her branches— a necklace of diamonds on her thin skin. She doesn’t need to be an apricot or peach, for she can put out buds when they’re withdrawn. 3. I regret that I haven’t appreciated her. Her delicate stamens are worth the effort. She’s life’s treasure in stricken winter, more charming than spring’s profusion. Her dark buds hold seeds of renewal, penetrating the body like red wine. I ask for a true artist to show her beauty, her slanting branches proudly shining.