Plum Tree Tavern Elegy

By Royal Rhodes. 

For Russell Streur.

Plums that bent the boughs of Temple trees
Lie as fallen fruit upon the ground,

Untouched by monks of buzzing clouds of bees,

Mixing with a peacock's strident sound.

The palette of these trees reflects each season:

Red that protests when earth's green is gone.

Elegies from owls that test our reason

Emerge to hunt the longed-for coming dawn.

The Tavern Innkeeper who welcomed us --

As water in a river fills these spaces --

Veered away from haiku, pale with fuss.

Each voice he sought had nature's edgy traces.

Returning writers fleeing urban bustle,

Now hear how wind has strewn the leaves that rustle.