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.
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