They don’t do that here,
the leaves do not demand to be seen
only in their chosen seasons
and their palette is self-limited.
There is no budding in spring,
no malus or prunus throwing off
wild cascades of white and pink
painting the ground around them.
There is no riot of color
as summer retreats and winter
plans its eventual arrival,
blazing reds and oranges,
yellow, ochers and everything
a patchwork best seen from above.
But there is no winter here,
not the season as we knew it
where trees were mere branches
awaiting the cold’s retreat,
there is wet and there is dry
and the palms care little
for which the sky brings forth.