BLOOM WHERE YOU ARE PLANTED

Marion Pellicano Ambrose

I peer out my front window through the whisper of frost as the first honey colored rays
of sun peek over the horizon. The lawn is a Florida winter carpet of brown scattered with
green, and squirrels dart happily in and out of the branches of the small red maple my
husband and I planted in the yard. I take a closer look at this little tree. The spot where
it sits was inhabited by several holly and water oaks before it. For some reason, none of
them survived. My husband fertilized, sprayed, watered and coaxed but each one became
a brittle brown twig after the first winter.