Sickle Cell Anemia
A bloodwood tree,
the scarlet liquid staining its insides
It’s a towering tree, green budding at its feet
It wilts, green leaves fall and spot the dirt ground
The sky swarms with dark clouds and the wind picks up
The leaves are now a crimson red
It’s a big one, a crisis
The storm is near
The tempest is ready, waiting in the wings
She readies her attack
The dark cerise branches billow in the wind
It tastes the brew of a storm
It prepares
It hovers over the budding greens
Dying
and wilting,
the tree stands tall
Its branches thick and sturdy
The tempest attacks
The tree spews red liquid
like a bloody fountain
Heavy wind, howling rain
The tree’s roots grasp at all hope
Finally, it’s over
It seems like it’s weeks before the clouds finally part for the sun
And the smell of autumn arises
The tree’s branches seem to relax
The wind is dead and the rain an afterthought
The crimson leaves turn green once again
Healed and clean,
It stands
And makes it very clear:
The tempest will not take it this time
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