Six years you may sow your field and six years may you prune your vineyard
When we came in August, there were roses —
budding, half opened, in bloom —
and some we had missed in their glory.
Their histories lost to us. The future is ours,
and so I took up orange-handled shears,
and all morning I severed and severed.
Whatever knotted shape the canes took
I cut away, with the small red buds
that would have been new growth.
Now, above each bush, a sphere of air.
May I be spared to cut again,
sever one future, shape another.