(A smoke bush survives the storm – and so can we.)
Branches bowed, leaves clinging like stubborn hope,
the smoke bush whispers in bruised greens and purples.
Yesterday’s storm carved lines across its trunk,
yet here it stands – that beauty does not vanish with the wind.
Petals torn, stems bent, roots trembling underground,
it teaches the language of survival:
how to hold on when the sky threatens
and how to wear scars like medals
in a world that prizes perfection.
I trace the jagged edges of its leaves,
and in their resilience, I see myself –
learning that persistence is tender,
that strength need not roar,
and that even broken things
can glimmer with quiet grace.