Gently perfumed 

Pink puffs of prettiness

Sprout

From amidst

Pale green leaflets

That stem from

Sturdy branches,

Which, in turn, reach outward

From a strong

Grayish-brown trunk.

It is, perhaps,

The perfect tree

For a child to climb,

Not so tall

As to threaten real harm

From taking

A tumble,

But still plenty tall

To spot pirates on yon horizon

Or to practice one’s best
Tarzan call.

I have many memories

Of many mimosas

And I object

To their being labeled

As mere weeds.

I believe that they

Are the stuff of which

A million children’s dreams are born,
And a few grown women’s
As well.
After all,
Who can resist the gift
Of a fragile pink mimosa blossom

From a strong and gallant hand?