Currant Bush

cut down again, 
the hundredth time, 
to clumps of stumps that stretch, 
limbs upward 
 
wondering why 
and what they 
did wrong this time 
not ready for fruit, I guess 
not strong enough, I guess 
not wanted? a nagging pain 
the smallest in the garden, 
midst an orchard filled 
with giants — tall, abundant, productive  
overpowering, overshadowing, 
dwarfing 
clump of stumps that tries to be 
the right thing, tries to grow 
the right way, 
sees the spilling berries 
that it wants to hold and carry 
in the clouds someday
but cut, 
knocked down again 
and again 
and again
a barely-more-than-seedling 
in the eyes of the orchard 
who prays the Gardener sees her 
as a tree

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