A house-sized rhododendron
stalks through a village, planting
itself wherever it wishes.
Restless as a puppy, it uproots
after a few hours, replants
in the brightest light it can find.
You insist that I confront it,
but if the locals don’t mind
this frequent upheaval, why
should we? “It’s unnatural,
and surrealism’s out of date,”
you claim. I heft an axe
to defend myself, if needed,
and wander the streets till I spot
a massive flounce of blossoms
digging like a dog, spoiling
a distinctly cerebral lawn.
The householder stands safely
distant, his expression bland
as butterscotch pie. Approaching
the flora, I speak in tones
any plant should understand.
It seems to listen politely
as it settles into the hole it dug.
But its reply shivers through me
so vividly that I’m almost
persuaded to behead myself
with my otherwise useless axe.
Retreating a safe psychic distance,
I phone you to report that
the flora is friendly but stubborn,
protective of its territory,
aware of its natural rights.
Its blossoms tinkle in the breeze.
It dozes on its boughs, tough enough
to strangle a full-grown man.
