Mid-summer at its peak now.
Oak leaf hydrangea,
languorous, drooping lush
with white blossoms.  They hang
pendulous as breasts.

She could never be happy
til they were trimmed to nubbins.
A sharp blade and broken stems
all over the ground.  One year,
in fury at their mutilation,
petulant as a child, I announced
I want to move.
She had destroyed my plants,
killed my desire to be here.

Now, of course they’re back,
heavy with the weight of beauty,
a reminder of my folly,
all that’s now gone.