I pull fishing line
through the curls
the plant still working up towards the sun
even as I rip out its roots
and toss the whole thing away
into the compost heap
but the flowers
on the tips
are too pretty to kill
cut in a mass of green
bright flashes of pink, purple, white
in water,
in a pitcher,
on a table in the front room
(and it becomes the brightest thing
in a space torn apart
in a dream of creating something
better)
days passing in the hot summer sun
and in the shade, on the table in the front room
petals drop one by one
peas grow in their long green sheaths