A PHOENIX IN THE GARDEN

Ripped from its mother plant

Thrust into unprepared clay-rich soil

The geranium persisted,

Grew without nurture.

But its blooms were few

And nearly hidden

Among its own leaves—

Brief flares of red-orange fire

Within a green surround

Spreading broad leaves

Over the garden corner edging

Onto converging paths.

Ruthlessly cut back

For passing feet,

The geranium compensated

Growing tall, high above

Its neighboring plants.

More blooms appeared

Some bursting upward

As if to touch the sky,

Then the storm came

Whipping the trees

From side to side

Before the rain descended

Like Niagara escaped from capture,

Followed by the pitiless

Pelting of ice pellets….

When the morning sun shone

Down on that garden corner

The geranium lay sprawled

Once more across the paths.

Yet its once skyward blooms

Shot their fire still

Defiant and strong

With a promise to rise again

In fire to reach the sky.