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Our red bougainvillea, waterfalled scarlet blooms,

The gardener’s sharpened shears, severing branches, doomed.

Branches pillaged, gathered, today, it faced its gloom.

And once fiery red blooms? Their lot, the trash man’s tomb.


“My once great gloried blooms, now ravaged and humbled.

That in which I trusted, my beauty, now tumbled.

That in which I took pride, my esteem, now crumbled.

Confounded, clouded, lost, confused, thoughts all jumbled.”


“I assumed, ‘I’m secure, for I am in control.’

Life sneered at arrogance. Control failed as my goal.

Complacent, proudly smug; ‘Don’t tell me what to do!’

Self-sufficient, am I, but have I lost my soul?”


“Predictability, that which I thought a must,

My expectations failed; depression, my hope crushed.

Mastery, an idol, was that my real trust?

Assurance, a mirage, my desires bit the dust.”


In the season of spring, what new life did appear!

Leaves, buds, and deep red blooms, brought quite a hearty cheer!

Roots deeper and anchored, branches strong as a spear,

This fragrant aroma will waft throughout the year.


Who could have imagined that the Pruner’s sharp knife

Would have brought such anguish and such internal strife?

The hand of the Master, in mystery gives life,

Such strength and such splendor and beauty, wonder rife.