Loquats are cold as winter suns.
Among rough leaves their clusters glow
like oval beads of cloudy amber,
or small fat flames of birthday candles.
Parrots, when the winter dwindles
their forest fruits and seeds, remember
where the swelling loquats grow,
how chill and sweet their thin juice runs,
and shivering in the morning cold
we draw the curtains back and see
the lovely greed of their descending,
the lilt of flight that blurs their glories,
and warm our eyes upon the lories
and the rainbow-parrots landing.
There’s not a fruit on any tree
to match their crimson, green and gold.
To see them cling and sip and sway,
loquats are no great price to pay.