Dead sticks left over from a past floral spray,
Whip-like branches, dull and grey, reach out to the sky.
Prickly, spiny, thorny reeds grow twenty feet high
Announcing their presence. Claiming no praise.
First hints of green in small oval-shaped leaves
Are cleaving to dead wood? Must see to believe.
Now lush reeds reach up, grasping at the upward blue,
The cadaver is alive; this was just the preview.
Dark green tendrils bunched close at the base
Spread skyward and distend, some tentacles enlace.
In the blink of an eye, their tips break out in flame,
And the vermillion fingers the desert reclaim.
