A flame tree blazes in my backyard.
Blossoms of fire consume it. If you were to stand at my bedroom window and look outside, it is doubtful that anything else would hold your eye other than the sparks of fire atop the branches. Even the red poinsettias stretching taller than I with their bloodied petals of silk could never compete; nor the lilies as white as the cap of Kilimanjaro.
You would only see the flames. They dominate the backdrop of greens and blues, yellows and browns. These flames exude so much color that it would be safe to say that a brighter expression of orange may have only existed at one other time, and that in the clothing anomie of the 70s.
Each twig holds one flame as if it were an offering to the clouds. Each flame opens into an ornament the size of two hands cradled in prayer. Hundreds of flames dot the air providing a nearly comical sacrifice of color and flair.
John 15:5
“I am the vine; you are the branches. If a man remains in me and I in him, he will bear much . . . apart from me you can do nothing.”
