It takes winter’s stark eye to see the excess you’ve become.
The crisscrossing stalks, the branches that stop, the ostentatious thoughts: all block.
The knife pain of recognition cuts through the deadened wood.
Each cane explains to the scissor mouth of shears its need to remain.
The debris of me: dead wood, sentimental stalks, palsied limbs are strewn across the ground in a wounded heap.
Always cut just above the green face of the emerging bud.
Sliced back to nine canes shaped as an urn with wind blowing through my mind, I begin again.
The ache to grow and seek the golden curve is what life knows.
Beauty’s made from a thousand cuts along its way.