At least, when
they whither,
There are
crumpled leaves to pick off.
I only notice
them when there is nothing else to do.
My nurturing is
an after thought, almost a mistake.
Others are, I
imagine, cooing gentle angels of growth.
Their fingertips
are like root-endings.
What is it, that
I can cull, instead of encourage?
The dry,
crinkled leaves remind me of crepe,
Or my
winter-lips.
I understand the
pulling off, the picking, the paring down.
I can feel the
rough paper veins shatter
In my own dry
palms.
New growth, that
is a mystery, and I think
Bother, I shall
probably drown you too.
I will worry you
to browning.
At least, then,
I’ll heed the call.
There must be
undertakers, who in
brown and broken
leaves
find purpose.
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