When I moved the tin trough with the two flowerpots of forest green leaves from under the tree by the driveway to the table on the deck I hoped a resurrection of fuchsia flowers would cascade over the edges of the container within just a few days. In the beginning the small pink flowers had been thick and resolute under the tree in the pan next to the big pot of towering mixed greens and perky white impatience. But the rosy blooms didn’t stand a chance against the insatiable deer. The ravenous bands made short order of the blossoms, leaving behind a sea of unadorned spiny spinach colored leaves. My rescue came late and the bitten through stubs left thick brown islands in a sage sea. Weeks have passed since the emancipation with no sign of burgeoning buds. I worried the deer damage was immutable and the summer would wind down without a renaissance.

But this morning…a perfect tight bud. I’ve named it “my little pink hope” atop a sea of green rubble.