In the park each spring each nondescript
tree starts up in its flowers the fruit
the Bible says you'll know it by.

Raindrops splat the petals back
like the sour gloves milady took
to her wet spots; wept, wept

in public on the first bench that wrought
itself iron vines and scrolls. She sat
on the damp slats against black tendrils.

On blinding summer days, the common
popularities of shade include
a moment's blotto in the woman's brain,

cool eyelid kisses as the leaves
stoop between her face and the infernal
radiance: the sun bangs a tambourine,

hops blue banners in a quirky air
that roisters up enough dust to manifest
the dead, soon to subside on her red shoes.

Each leaf tells her a plain green lie.
She thinks that the lies people owe her,
long overdue, will gather like this,

into one elegant green head that admits
feathered friends on quick innocent
errands (or less) that nobody minds,

but the two or three scurrilous
children up there will have to come down
right now, dinner gets so cold.

Autumn nuts, acorns, the horsechestnuts
aglow within split husks - by then she will again
expect abundance at minimum.