Tender

“Soft dirt makes for light work.”

-Gisa Cecani

Not yet Spring, sunlight barely reaches

past the slider, so I array houseplants

like regents parading before the rabble

and lead with the blades. Just a few snips

before they' re done, cleaned of the veins and petals

that looked ready to come off. It must always

be pruning season, looking at these hands. Sometimes

I sit in the sun with them and drink dayglow slow

with ice water. In red clay I keep the cuttings, sisters

and daughters mudded for new roots, and these

wan stems finally learn to breathe. If not

for the starving of idyllic hamlets, where

would the flowers grow? At night I bring them in

so they can imagine what they're missing.