Every week she passes
from the clinic in Kampala 
to rest awhile in my arms 
and marvel at the sky
through the veil of my bloom: 
blue on blue.

The southern wind speaks 
through my branches:
“Stay little sister. You have 
many miles before home, 
before Lake Victoria laps 
at your feet like a puppy.

You carry medicine for mother. 
Lay it down. I will stay guard. 
Lay on my moss carpeted bole 
and sleep, while I scatter
my trumpets to take home 
as a gift.”

I have looked for her
for many days now. I know 
the meaning of her absence. 
Mother no longer has need 
of medicine. The girl is spared her 
ten-hour round journey.

She will walk to the shore,
and throw my blossom
into the lake of her ancestors, 
in remembrance of a mother, 
and for a childhood gone: 
blue on blue.

I, Jacaranda,
offer shelter to the weary. 
Many arms wrap round 
my old, gnarled skin, 
and many tears nourish 
the sap in my veins.

Many stories of fear and loss
drop from little lips in the quiet 
of my shade. Small faces press 
against my wrinkled bark 
for comfort only the inanimate 
can give. I hear and learn much.

I take census of the sick and dying, 
numbered by my pretty flowers, 
strewn over the dust and rocks, 
shearing off in the breeze, 
or washed up on lake shores: 
blue on blue.