Scrappy

People often ask
what I grow in my garden
and I snicker and say:
"Whatever the earth can
self-sustain; I practice
'dryland gardening.'"

I long ago learned
that my house on the hill
in a wooded glade
does not make for
best friends with low-lying
foliage, flowers or shrubbery.

In fact, the year or two
before we moved in,
our predecessors planted
a small row of azalea bushes.

And every year I wonder
aloud to myself in the yard:
"Are you guys dead?
Why don't you grow?
Should I pull you?
I'll let you go one more year."

And then I forget about them
and summer comes,
then fall rain
and winter bluster
and then here comes spring.

So once again,
I'm out here on my
pollen-cloaked
bluestone patio.

I'm low to the earth
getting a close view
at a stubborn survivor:
a sole pink bloom.

Despite a dozen years
of struggle and neglect
this still tiny azalea
has created and nurtured
one present bud, now flowering.

As my favorite
chaos theory expert
(and faux doctorate)
Ian Malcolm once said:
"Life finds a way."