I pruned the flowers of my soul yesterday, following
the careful directions set out by my mother's mother. "A little
loving will go a long way, Dear," she would tell me as she pinched
a yellow-green leaf between her dirt-lined fingernails.

I clipped the pieces of myself--
shriveled and yellowed,
dried and dead-- and sought root
among the Roses and Marigolds, Violets and Clovers,
hoping for a companion to grow tall and strong next to.

I radiated in sunshine as bees moved from flower
to flower, tickling petals and whispering
meditations of beauty and growth and the ways of
love.

An English Ivy wrapped its tendrils
around me, encompassing and tender, kissing me
gently until I turned my face from the sun.
And though the bees did not come and I could not
breathe, I felt
loved.

But the ivy crept on to find other flowers,
and the storms had proven too strong
for me.

I've been uprooted and waterlogged,
wet wilting from the soggy, soaked earth, drooping
and hoping for a second season.

And when the sun dries me out,
I no longer know
whether I am dormant
or dying.