Notes About The Poem
1490, Brian Strand, 7/21/2026
Ode to My Crepe Myrtle
Oh bring the joy of pink,
I can sink my teeth into
the growing beak, topmost
wings of loveliness,
through my lacy windowscape.
Don’t obscure your smooth legs,
your growing up, woman;
though not really human,
just a link to sublimity.
No limit, to the brink
of Summer happiness, at peak.
You speak of high season;
we wait all year to see; but
of what do we see in the rest
of the quarterly divisions?
You light me up in Summer heat.
Some have rows and rows,
so neat. You complete me,
standing alone - oh how
I admire my quiet scenery.
Others might have a bounty full,
other hues bleeding,
but I admire my eyeful, leading
me upwards to a full stop.
Others, too, might take
you for granted, myrtle,
thinking you immortal.
My grand, the youngest hand
pointed out my garden,
when I believed I had none.
The lips of a child
utter vainglorious visuals,
where I might otherwise
wander toward a blackened forest.
Why not grab the handful
that stands right before me;
why look for happiness
through another groomer’s eyes?
Plentiful is pink, sweet and cherry,
cornering my sighs.
She will not last long;
what beauty does;
God does but place
an amorous trace, after Winter,
after my willow has let down her hair,
after seeds of potential grass
run with their carpeted feet -
footprints everywhere.
I stare at the focal point, looking out,
looking up, esteeming pert ink,
fascinated by her name,
rolling my tongue in poetic feat.
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