Once in a year it is in the mood to sing with Sinatra ‘Half a love never appealed to me'. At other times it sits behind and hears others sing. Look, there are no leaves It is only flowers and flowers. For the sake of art Van Gogh for days ditches mind and food. Do not call it a narcissist Let its presence blow its own trumpet. Let it cry with every ounce of breath or, laugh with every inch of skin. Like a child gone crazy. When the days of glory are over it would be childish not to go into oblivion, not to be the back bencher and exist as if not existing.
PS: Tabebuia or the Trumpet tree is flowerless for most part of the year. However when it flowers for one or two months in a year, what a spectacle it is.
I have a special fascination for tabebuias. A poetic tribute from my side was long due.