Her Chinese past forgotten
she flares red in South America
new grafts added
to last until sunset,
her effrontery the brashness
of a brief parade, yesterday's sisters
curled in death's parchment.
She dominates the light;
sheen of leaves gratifies the gardener;
her magnet pins the butterfly
in blue delirium to her cup,
a gift from day's basket,
dropped carelessly as hours
follow the evening sun.
Does it matter? The soil? Her roots
tangle this earth, promise
fresh blooms as dusk's grey petals
shroud today's scarlet.
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