“Let me trail down”
the leaves and vines plead.
”Let me grow until I cover
the window, the floor, your chair.”

The Gardener
quietly slips the scissors from
his back overalls pocket
and snips
pieces
here
there
cutting back
vanity, pride, self-reliance
You cannot keep growing without
the Gardener.
Plumage cut back
the roots sigh
deeply and spread
themselves
sending up new
shoots of
green
pouring strength into new blossoms.

Nothing wasted,
the cuttings
rooted, fed, grounded
grow on—
some more beautiful
than their parents.

“See,” says the Gardener,
”the scissors
aren’t so bad.”

Janet Machalowski