The Empress tree reaches to embrace the day.
And my father.
With one hundred-two blooms.
Sweet perfumes.
Lavender candles for his cake.
That, without doubt, I would make.
Served on cherry blossoms, soft pink table.
Along a hillside, not too stable.
His children, theirs, and all the grands.
He, in the middle.
All clasping hands.
Pull out the lemon tree.
Give him our news.
He’d listen intently.
Faces peruse.
After a song, herbal tea, a treat,
each would hug him.
Then he’d retreat.
Lynn Benjamin
April 22, 2023
