The frangipani, at this time,
Blooms in a manner quite sublime.
Waxy, porcelain diadems,
With a tinge of a blush around the hems,
Like Christmas candles in the round,
They fascinate us and astound.
The weight of all that beauty must
It seems force the tree to the very dust.
No flimsy leaves, but sturdy greenery,
Firmly set in the summer scenery.
Cream with a palour filled with light
Set against darkest forest night.
Even when fallen the blossoms thrive
Pretending that they're still alive.
They lie there scattered on the grass
For our delectation as we pass.
Even when they have been misused,
They retain their fragrance, although bruised.
In saucers they float, indoors, en masse.
(We decay less charmingly, alas!)
Frangipani! You make more sweet
The long slow days of summer heat.
But one frangipani has no flowers.
Wouldn't you guess at it!