From my iron-latticed window, I spared this solitary, dual-chrome sugar palm tree a glance, my first real acknowledgement of its disregarded though conspicuous existence, and I decided that it was worth a few words if I could find the right ones as I do not possess a string of qualifications in Natural Science.
A little comparative visual research later, I conjectured that this Borassus specimen was a male after deciding that “barren female” sounded rude to the tree at the least and hypothetical at the worst.
Akin to a derelict totem pole its thickset lower bark was, and from this segment projected vicious woody spines, reminiscent of a pickelhaube, only a plus-size parody in wood.
This ivy vine snaked round it like an undead garland on a dead man’s casket while the lowest leaves were tan with little pinprick holes.
The intermediate level possessed aerial roots that bore an uncanny similitude to a fraying, minuscule hangman’s halter.
Catabiosis was at work on the leaf-tips, some of which were reluctantly drooping, courtesy of the pull of gravity’s invisible hand.
Craning my neck, I saw the fertile masthead that boasted of divergent branches, the leaves spanning like verdant handheld fans that would have found widespread favor and acclaim had this been the epoch prior to the conceptualization of a trio of blades that gyrate at the toggle of a switch.
I hope my little piece of prose penned at the celestial point of boredom does not affront this runty boy-tree or unduly adulate him such that he gets feathers. (Now that would be another story, wouldn’t it?)