Rain Tree

Besides the fact my father always wished to grow one far above its temperate range, I always wondered why the rain tree held my fascination so. A modest tree in size, not particularly beautiful, it is drab for most of a year. Yet in fall the yellow blooms consume last year's memory, and imbue the sky and earth with flowers live and dying. Like a fragrant snow, a saffron tenderness kisses the earth beneath the homely branches. The tree grows large in beauty only, unlike the movie giant where metaphor of size misstates majesty. And as the weeks go by, the falling blooms transform to russet parchment pods that rustle and whisper in the breeze and house the seeds for future generations. Perhaps my father knew that in the fall the rain tree claims two final shows, a fevered golden symphony that fades to bittersweet and blushing hopefulness.