Poor little thing. A few days ago, I moved our struggling crape myrtle away from the cedar to a new place at the base of an old camellia stump. After I’d watered it in, I decided it was a pomegranate tree. I’ve been calling it a pomegranate ever since. It seems quite pleased. There will be no fruit this year, of course, but I fully expect it to bloom next year. That in turn will attract hummingbirds. Pomegranate trees love hummingbirds. They love hummingbirds just as willows love water and clover loves bees.
In its former location, there was mint and blue star creeper growing around the pomegranate. The top of the root ball is covered with soft green growth. And so I really transplanted three things at once — a pomegranate, some baby’s tears, and an aromatic forest.
The cedar pretends not to notice. But I know it does. Later today I’ll offer it a cup of tea. I’ll lean on my shovel and let it think I have all the time in the world. I’ll tell it that the little I say is everything I mean. And when I’m done, I’ll call it my lemon tree. Who knows what it will call me.
Categories: New Poems & Pieces