The Judgement of the Withered-Branch Peony Tree

The withered branch,
Come spring, was bare.

Though unfamiliar with this tree
We knew the Truth and it decreed
The dried-up womb be severed
And burned.

Humble servants, we obeyed.
We axed the gnarled limb and gave
It to the ready flames and watched
It burn, easily, proof we were right.

We succeeded. We made room
For boughs that know when they ought to bloom.

How sad, how sad,
For had we waited
We would have seen
Come darkest winter,
When we’re starving for color
And a cause for hope,

Blossoms,
On the branch
We, in our wisdom, exterminated.