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