Nancy Scott
Blue Jacaranda

Birds cease their
chatter and droplets
spatter my drive. I curl up on
the sofa, novel in hand—on the southern coast of
Spain where the blue Jacaranda blooms, a buff stranger appears with a lime-colored drink
in his hand. Please, for you, he says. She sweeps the hem of her long-flowing dress from
the bench. Join me, she says. And the sky explodes with blinding light.