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Poem

AZALEA BUSH

you ask me to trim
the bush outside (near the steps)
which has grown unchecked
for twenty years.

it is a true monstrosity.

you hand me the shears, 
tell me to trim it back
a little.  take some branches
off here and there.  your instructions

are always implied, never specific.

outside, i sit on the ground
staring at the bush,
the pink flowers on the limbs
grinning up at me

like tiny mouths.

i threaten them with the sharp
shears and they retaliate
with their sharp teeth,
snapping and snapping.

twenty years and counting

and now your azalea bush has a life of its own.
behind me, behind the glass window
you are watching to see who will win:  
the thick, tangled, woodsy stems or me.

 i lift the shears awkwardly.

i know you are waiting, watching.
i dig the shears into the ground
and turn around (was this the right branch?).
behind the glass your reflection is smiling.

you are always smiling in my presence.
you knew before i began
who would be defeated,
didn’t you?

the sun, gleaming from the glass,
hides the deep wrinkles of your face, 
your dull, gray hair.  all that remains is:
that monstrous smile 

which has grown sharper with time.

even the azalea bush turns away,
snapping shut as i take the shears
and slide the blade across my wrist. 
bright pink and lovely, encouraged by the first cut,

i lift the shears and trim the bush 
once again just for you.  it was the right
branch, the perfect cut.  the blossoms
sprouting from my wrists

sparkled like perfect rubies in the daylight.
mother, i now understand:  landscaping
isn’t at all difficult when performed
with confidence and the right tools.

thank you for the chance to be reborn,
smiling.


Copyrighted
April 29, 2011
Jim Brewer

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