When February with its Fiery Green
Sweep across the fingers of a Palm Tree
Spilling they spread bare, flower’s cupolas weave
Blue and yellowed, yellowed its tips proceed
Angled hazardous in degree so free
the bloom in its tumult and precipice
impossibly as a bird sees escape
survival results of fear set fire
and flame just a paint brush its verdure plain
winter of green is summer of orange
where yellow alerts beckons elements
profusely the flame of life burns gently
early in February when fine things
can be wrought from the remnants of evenings
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