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Old friend, I remember you as a gnarly bumpy shrub I planted 50 years ago; I planned to cut you down many times. Honeysuckle, brambles, vines, wisteria, decadence, neglect overgrew your ugliness. You reigned over a depressed corner of the yard I avoided for many years. You were remarkable, warping yourself to the harsh cold of winter, bending to the winds of fall, enduring each bitter lonely season that comes; calling to me in the blaze of summer, lifting me into the death and rebirth of spring, holding me with your stability and rootedness.
