Hydrangea

(The poem that came before the parable)

I always wanted a hydrangea,
umbrella of creamy pink blossoms,
dry tumbling in my autumn yard.
It was a wedding present,
a promise of new life,
just outside the back door.
There were challenges; a young
dog scrabbled at its root-scent.
Heavy blooms bent the trunk.
We staked it for support,
used bricks to keep the dog away,
pruned the lower branches.
I strove for my dream of beauty,
its old-fashioned shape by the door
of my new-made family.
But it did not flourish.
Hard winters harmed it;
ice bent it, broke its spirit.
Last spring it did not leaf.
No heavy blossoms bent
the drying branches.
In fall, its time had come.
I turned away, never
expecting it to be so quick.
But when there’s nothing…
no root system to hold
the plant in the ground,
love cannot thrive and bloom.
A different we pulled it up,
as rootless as a dry twig, and
laid it to rest on the brush pile.
Sometimes the things we plant
don’t grow; but in their place,
new hopes may come to flower.
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3 thoughts on “Hydrangea

  1. Pingback: Death Comes to the Hydrangea – Reflectionary

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