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.