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 should have known.

Under the fire tree

he passed by

and I cried,

I cried for a while.

Then, I stopped!