Lost Child

A branch snapped last night. When it had first sprouted it was so lovely that the temptation was to leave it alone and let it blossom in its own time. I pruned a little, but how to strike a balance between the wild beauty and ecstatic potential and the need for cutting for safety's sake. In deference to beauty the necessary final prunning was never done. Each wind or storm that hit did such damage that the blossoms appeared less and less and now the branch existed more in memories than reality. In some seasons the blossoms would appear briefly, but cutting without killing was now not possible and all that was left, was the gardener's hope of one more season of blossoms. It was not a large storm but years of wildness had left too much dead wood to allow bending. A branch snapped last night and there will be no more blossoms.