The flowering vine curled up the tree trunk like a twisting petticoat: a lacy hem of petals pulled up shamelessly, crawling up the exposed branches.
Skirts the color of apricots curved like stairways, their borders pausing in mid-kick – graceful and shameless. Jane Avril’s dance immortalized by tree and flower, her galop prancing in a garden for the duration of a masculine season appreciative of a shapely limb.
Crinkling bougainvillea embroidered into filigrees as delicate as any that might have rested on a woman’s knee. They rustled and swayed like crinolines in a music hall that was light with springtime’s new-made bounty. The dusky perfumes of the demimonde were a different time, a different season, a distant woman.
Skirts circled the bough, a halo of amber blooms lifted as brazenly as any actress frozen in a postcard, tinted by hands long buried in the ground. But this lady has her living roots in that same earth…and she will live forever.