Lynn Simms Poet I do not know?

So Little, So Much

Cracked gray and gnarled bark,
bleached and covered with moss.
Leaves yellowed, the underside
spattered with rust.
Blackened are your buds where fungus
overtook the healthy green.
Not as old as one would think,
Rhododendron. Stressed from
dry salt wind, forest fire ash,
overhead watering and fog.
Tiny creatures feed on your
weakness. 

Winter rains overpower any strength
you have left.  Bathed and battered, your
foliage a breeding ground for hungry pests.
Last week I sprayed your branches, top and 
bottom. To my surprise, today your leaves
look better and the green buds have survived.
Blackened buds and dead branches I will
excise with a sharp knife and will burn until
their flowering souls float upward and out of sight.

If doctors can treat the wretched, wracked with disease,
I can care for you, Rhododendron, to bring you back to
blooming health.
I do this to satisfy my love of plants,
to feed my inner soul,
with hope that if I were left discarded and ignored, 
someone kind would still see beauty in my grayed head,
bowed shoulders, beaten brow.
Would caress the gnarled and wrinkled skin,
and see the bloom still possible
behind the saddened eyes that hide my soul.

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