Outside the youth center, between the liquor store  
and the police station,
a little dogwood tree is losing its mind;

overflowing with blossomfoam,  
like a sudsy mug of beer;
like a bride ripping off her clothes,

dropping snow white petals to the ground in clouds,

so Nature’s wastefulness seems quietly obscene.  
It’s been doing that all week:
making beauty,
and throwing it away,
and making more.

A colour of the Sky by Tony Hoagland

Akasajoti sitting on the pavement by me