I gleaned from the road side,
pieces of purple passion,
broken and smouched
by an errant tire.

I filled 6 ounce plastic cups
with 4 ounces of water,
trimmed the browning stems
till green appeared,
placed them in cups
on the patio.

I’ll refill, as, over time,
the water evaporates,

I’ll wait,
as rootlings appear,
then dig spaced, shallow cribs
on the fringes of my garden
and plant the cuttings,
gently in their beds.

Wait.

Wait for the warming southern sun
to roll north again.

Watch,
as the purple passion
grows and spreads,
in, perhaps,
a year.

It’s good pay back
for my effort and my time.

But,
if I,
as I plan to,
plant a young
Live Oak,
slow, slow growing, long, gnarled limbs, lushness…

Well, you see,
I’ll reach 70 this December.
Perhaps I should just stick
to rooting purple passion,

unless
I confess
I’m doing it
for Brenna,
my 10 year old
grand-daughter.
For her,
twenty years hence,
to lounge beneath
the well grown tree
while her daughter,

(Genevieve, in my futures memory)

climbs aloft
to wave to me,

(far off, by then)

from her lookout
in the clouds.