Rhododendron Dreams
Rhododendron, I wonder why your flowers are still in bloom on this November day.
Why, although some have wilted, your flowers remain a youthful shade of pink
like rosy cheeks pinched by the prickly air.
How does it feel for you when the seasons change?
Do you taste the cold in your sugary vasculature?
Beneath your waxy skin,
do you long for the sun?
We are not too dissimilar, you and I.
In the dawn and dusk of my sleep,
I, too, dream of the sun.
I imagine touching her with my mortal hands.
Her phantom kisses on my earthly body leaving trails of celestial warmth on my neck,
casting shadows in the folds of my skin.
My skin that feels fragile, as if it could dry up at any moment,
fall to the ground and pile up like autumn leaves on the damp concrete roads.
The atoms of dead skin and dead leaves await the day
when they can be alive again.
Like you, I perch by the window,
hoping that the mist will sooner disperse.
That the sun will tell me
that she dreams of me too.