Rampant

There was a time I could walk this road and be certain of astonishment in May.

By some miracle of seed or root the pines — right here where the road dips and twists — were draped in royal purple for weeks.

Panicles of wild wisteria spilled from their branches. The warm air smelled of black pepper and grapes.

Vines thick as a man’s wrist coiled like snakes to the tops of the pines, and the northern woods embraced a southern splendor.

Until someone official, fearing for the trees, came one year to cut the vines; sliced through hundreds in a single day, severing them just inches from the ground.

The leaves and the scented flowers died. the dead vines remained as if nailed to the trees.

I shiver when I pass them now. A warning to us all:

Beauty run rampant will be summarily destroyed.

But I remember those flowers. I was a witness.