Under the fire tree he stopped by and I cried
Under the fire tree he passed by and it rained, it rained for a while. Then, it stopped. November is the thief, is the culprit, is the start of an eight lunar marathon - assumptions and seven o'clock pm text messages. The rain surged on and on, fat and thin droplets fell randomly as though tossing a coin, mixed, out of place, untimely, dubious. And fiery, fresh flowers took heed its thirsty half-breed kisses that are the sweetest, becoming sweet, then tasteless. The leaves, yet high, blanketed him and he obeyed its rule of four: eagle's stares, pauper's hands, phone calls on a school day night and a walk after going to a movie house. He stayed for quite a time. The fire tree sheltered him, grew with its stems curtaining down but he freed from the bind, unknowingly stepped on the red flowers to die. He picked up a sampaguita that is subtle, is feminine, is dainty, brought it to his left breast pocket. The fire tree s...