Crape Myrtles in August

The bark peels back like old skin— Mine, yours, the cinnamon scrolls Of what we shed to live. August Bleaches the world to bone, the bark’s faint spice Rising in the noon glare, Heat tasting of salt and sand. And still this Crape crowns Itself with Myrtle fire. Still— I cannot explain what breaks in me. Still I press my cheek Against its flaking flesh, feel The pulse beneath—magenta, White, pink, the deep red Of what I've never Bled for anyone. Each blossom a small fist Opening with the muted pop Of summer rain on dry earth. Each petal, tissue-thin As the lies I've told myself About enduring. The Eastern Shore sun Has made this tree what survival Looks like: stubborn— Beautiful, built for the burning Seasons that strip us To what we are. Winter comes, And I am learning How to be naked— These mottled limbs My teachers, conductors' hands Mid-gesture, never finished With their fierce music Of staying alive. Of reaching Up through the killing Cold, brittle air ringing With the clink of frozen twigs toward something Green promises I cannot fathom—yet still I know Lives in the light returning.