The botanists say
It's not supposed to survive
The harsh winters
But every summer
Out of the dead thicket
It races the forsythia
To the sky
For its August grand opening
Each pale flower cluster
A linen covered table
Set to feed an international clientele
That come in their
Saris and sarapes
And bright kimonos
Their boubous and kaftans
And tailored white suits
All are welcome
All are fed
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