Lost Child

A branch snapped last night.

When it had first sprouted

it had revealed such loveliness

that the temptation was to leave

it alone and to let it blossom

in its own time.

Some pruning was done,

essential for protection from storms

as every gardener knows.

But, how to strike a balance

between the wild beauty and

the ecstatic potential

that rejects all cutting

for safety’s sake.

In deference to beauty

the necessary final pruning

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

on memories than reality

and the gardener cursed his folly.

But 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

to much dead wood to allow

bending.

A branch snapped last night

and there will be no more

blossoms.