At the flight of dawn, I wake up,

delighted to locate a bouquet of white gardenias on my balcony.

Perplexed, I inhale the fresh air beneath the dewy sky,

imagining the materializing–vanishing apparition of a handsome stranger 

sending me flowers, with the perfumed words “I have a crush on you.”

The tall, princely adjacent black-plum tree rustles, 

suddenly prances about joining its kingdom’s euphonious choir,

while the evergreen branches twirl in the wind’s gentle caress.

Next day I find at the same spot red chrysanthemums,

exhibiting a floral eloquence—“I love you.”

The following morning another batch of primrose stimulates

the haunting words of a kindred spirit—“I can’t live without you.”

My mind slides down a slippery trail, jumping up and down,

obsessed with the existence of a real–impalpable entity.

My neighbors summon all with an urgent need 

to cut the unruly tree bent upon reaching the sky,

touching the infinite with its random 

overgrowth of wilderness as in an unkempt garden.

“It’s invading our space. Encroaching our territory.”

I give my consent, but feel the restlessness of a lover within;

reveries of the striking being refuse to abandon, as is love’s scented want.

At the onset of the subsequent daylight, there are purple hyacinths,

hinting at sadness, teeming with white carnations symbolizing grief, 

and yellow carnations expressing rejection in love.

The tree seems to utter an unvoiced cry, the leaves as still as the grave,

stunned at the boundaries set for we are unequals.

When the time comes to lodge the axe,

I surrender myself with grass flowers tucked in my hair,

position with my arms wide open defending the mort, and declare,

“Upon my dead body”—feeling yoked together.

Bewildered, the men stop the act of abhorrence,

stalling their devilish manners, perhaps their intent doesn’t expunge,

while the fragile, conditional state of the enduring soul revives.

On the succeeding day, when the sky turns rosy

I discover pink carnations on my balcony,

reiterating the mood of the charming sentimentalist—“I’ll never forget you.”

I pretend to be oblivious of the natural law,

harmonizing exquisitely with the dark fronds, bowing branches,

gazing at their gracious ensemble only to

repeat an inner voice again and again, “So will I.”