Rain Tree Poem by Barry Middleton

Besides the fact my father always wished to
grow one far above its temperate range,
I always wondered why the rain tree
held my fascination so.
A modest tree in size, not particularly beautiful,
it is drab for most of a year.
Yet in fall the yellow blooms consume last year's
memory, and imbue the sky and earth
with flowers live and dying.
Like a fragrant snow, a saffron tenderness kisses
the earth beneath the homely branches.
The tree grows large in beauty only,
unlike the movie giant where metaphor of size
misstates majesty.
And as the weeks go by, the falling blooms
transform to russet parchment pods
that rustle and whisper in the breeze
and house the seeds for future generations.
Perhaps my father knew that in the fall the rain
tree claims two final shows, a fevered golden
symphony that fades to bittersweet and blushing
hopefulness.