The Banksias in Her Wake

Her slender hands of crimson brush the shivering banksia seeds—

For all her terror and her beauty—

For all her scorching radiance and suffocating trails of smoke, she still breathes life upon them.

And they’re thriving—

They’re thriving like the flowers in Spring—the blushing bottlebrushes, the shimmering sweet peas;

They’re thriving, living, and breathing.

So when she comes, and brushes her slender hands of crimson,

Oh where do they go?

Where do they hide in her gleaming presence? Why do they scatter at the sight of 

Her regal red gown, her delicate orange tendrils that fall just beneath her shoulders,

Her softening voice—one that layers a hush in the forest

And sends the fretting bottlebrushes and sweet peas to a forever slumber—

Oh where do they go!

Then when the forest floor has been swept clean,

And the crickets chirp no more,

And the plants all hide beneath her trailing smoke,

She’ll stop in her path—she’ll reach her slender hands of crimson,

And she’ll breathe life to 

The banksias in her wake.