By Darrell Coggins

 

The air is cold,
probing clouds smudge the sky.
 
Expectant;
dwarfed in terra-cotta
it crouches,
grafted to Flying Dragon stock.
 
Briefly,
breaking through
the sun’s rays slant low.
 
Illumed in a breath of light
leaves curl, oily and damp –
folded wings waiting for summer.
 
Pendant,
glinting like tinted pearl earrings,
consorts of fruit
mimic an ornamental crown.

 

This poem is a public submission created for Red Room Poetry's New Shoots digital poetry anthology