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On a morning ruled by chainsaws
they cut off all your branches
right down to the ground

then carted you off to burn.
But you would not be dispatched
so easily.

Underground you waited, untouchable
by sun, and moon, and me—
but not the rain. You drank

and planned a bloodless revolution
filled with sap and life
all covered in thorns.

You never lost your dream about finches
singing in your flowers and cleaning
caterpillars off your leaves.

You never doubted, and you never
held it against me when I did.
You only proved me wrong.

 

bougainvillea