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late lantana
Others would have called her weed,
Cut her down, planted other seed,
but she had a need, a need to breed.
And I left her there, beside my fence.
I watched her grow without pretense,
but her presence there made no sense.
She was a gypsy who didn't belong.
Vibrant blossoms proved me wrong;
Stayed all summer singing her song.
Admiring glances and water I gave
To save her from that winter knave,
But frozen ground became her grave.
Or so I thought til spring she sprang.
To my surprise, she'd become a gang.
Her chorus bloomed, all summer sang.
Rested in autumn, but as winter nears;
She lifts my spirits and calms my fears,
As a host of scraggly flowers appears.
Should I shelter her from eminent
frost,
Prolong her flowering so all is not lost,
not tossed like dice in a seasonal cost?
No, without help, this lady grew strong.
She'll return next spring singing a song.
Instead of a gang, she'll bring a throng.
I'll trust Allknowing,as I know she must.
During her dormancy, roots will be thrust
Deep and wide, thus affirming her trust.
That she'll gloriously resurrect in spring.
I'll learn her lesson so in spring I'll sing,
Live life as it's dealt, take all it may bring.
This plant and I have a kinship to nourish.
Our beauty ignored by blind and boorish.
Where most would die,we would flourish.
Our haughty, hybrid sisters need rare sods,
We've weathered storms, survived all odds.
Were perhaps poorly planted by giddy Gods.
~ Patricia Fiske ~
© 1997 Patricia Fiske/RedBird Café
All rights reserved. Unauthorized reproduction prohibited by all applicable
laws.
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