Figs
It’s not as if I don’t have my own garden
I know the sheer stress pruning brings
Removing infinite possibilities
to focus on finite growth
Every year, I prune back
The weak, malnourished, gangly branches
That I have spent tender years
Pouring heart and soul into
It’s a mourning each spring
When new life appears
What should be revitalizing
Only to remind myself…

