Land of eucalypts

In secret, slivered slip of leaf

the frame is put in place,

a languishing of eucalypt;

as perfumed, drifting grace.

The myrtle from the southern land

is born in fire and death,

and drapes the days in waiting

until it burns again.

With serpentine releasing,

its skin is shaken free,

revealing flesh fair beautiful

as bark surrounds the tree.

The moon shines on its purity,

caresses milky trunks,

as phoenix-like she rises

on watered, ancient roots.

Like demons born in torment,

they raise igniting arms,

as if to cry for mercy

when nature calls them home.