The Festival
by dracumancer

This is the hour in which the curtain rises,
when from the bony framework of branches,
now brilliant with green leaflings
drawn out from the sun,
explodes yellow-, white-, and pink-.

They bloom in their shirtless skins with tattoos showing,
in the steady beat of djembes and bongos.
They bloom in their formless dancing to
reggae, hip-hop, punk, it doesn't matter,
with the wafts of incense drifting in.

Hiding through the bare-bark branches
in winter, they peak out in spring.