|Jul/Aug 2015 Poetry Special Feature|
Photography by Lydia Selk
Briefly as a person's life they bloom:
golden oriole, pink, orange, red,
their leaves, nectar (honey from the nectar)
toxic as if they held death in their deep color.
I have lived like a bee labors for its drop of liquor—
the loss of warmth, sun precursed by shade—
the cooler evening of my days as the sun hollows.
Azaleas arriving in a black vase means death—
that vibrant colored gift—the antidote.