Promptly in season the jacaranda,
dropping its vivid cloak to the ground,
becomes a tree again, standing in all its bare
Where the trees line the avenue
the pavements lie emblazoned. All
passing feet, bare or sandaled or booted,
but these familiars are comfortable
that seasons roll, and again the trees
will plunge into swaying banks
of violet splendour.
The hot dry days carry this routine
magnificence, the neighbourly
and hardly-noticed nudge of the sublime.
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