WHEN IN BLOOM

There is a dogwood tree in my front yard
and every May it turns me into
the envy of my street.
Thirty feet high of brilliant white flowers
like clusters of butterflies glowing at nightfall.
The neighbours say to me—in reverent tones
for I am the Keeper of the Dogwood—
that it has never bloomed so much as this year.
Every May they say it.
The other eleven months, my tree is unremarkable,
and the neighbours only frown
as they walk past my yard,
tugging at children and husbands who linger too long.