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.