I’m using my thumbnail to scrape back
pieces of gray bark along each stem
of this Bougainvillea I fear is dying.
I’m looking for green,
though I don’t want to over-hope.
That is, I want my hope clear-eyed,
shot through with joy and sorrow,
but with a protective sheen.
Yet here I am crouching, almost kneeling
on the decorative bark between
our storage shed and back patio,
weaving my hands through dried stems.
Every Saturday morning last Autumn,
I poured water on its roots,
willed its leaves to unwilt.
Come to find out from gardenreport.com,
I only hastened the rot. For months
I’ve watched its lush leaves turn brittle,
drop to the ground. It would be easier
to pull the plant out altogether.
I could wear gardening gloves
and long sleeves to protect against thorns.
I could stuff the twisted mass
into our green waste bin once and for all.
But I don’t want to hope too little,
or rather I don’t want to give up too soon
in some misguided effort to squash the pain
of living with hope. What I mean to say is
if this plant can garner all its energy
to preserve, beneath its dried outer layer
some spots of living tissue,
then I can show up
and cut back its dead stems.
I want to believe that the Bougainvillea
will flourish. I want to live with the fear
that my efforts will fail. I want to stay open
to what’s possible, but not stymied by it.
Let the Bougainvillea become full
and flowering. Let it open
its bracts to the sun. Or if it withers,
let me run my fingertips along its leaves
as they fade from fuchsia to brown.
Originally appeared in Pidgeonholes, March 2023
