The red berries of too dangerous, children reaching and reaching.
I miss my oleander. The dozen trees of 20 feet tall, poison and white flowers lingering along my hands. I watched each of them die, dug their stumps and cut them to trash, patting their flat dirt soft. New lavender dreams.
Mexican fan palms would break concrete and push retaining walls. I trimmed them and the spikes, blood and pain along the black bars and gravity.
The bees would sing in the bottlebrush tree, friendly lingering as I enter the branches to
pull the red trumpet vines of hundreds of feet teaching them the line and way.
I pulled the dead weight of ice plant, purple and wet. Dragged a metal claw to pull it and weed vines from slopes. Then coaxed its life again from dirt.
Cutting stalks and replanting the Mexican flowers after pushing small dirt over concrete, some water and prayer.
The regrowth of oleander, small plants. Still with the leaf scorch disease.
Attacking all grass, the weed vine would not die.
Yet, I pull roses, strawberries, tomatoes and try to coax apples and arranges from the dying trees.
Birds of paradise with the sticky juice that eventually became jasmine.
The verbena, my favorite, with its touch color and smell, gave up long before I did. I watched it go, missing more each day.
The recycling of flowers, over and over.