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kristine-funch-lodgePoems
It's time now. Cut back the roses down to earth. Cut back the canes that bore the flowers, raising brave heads to the sun, Now, gone to hips or browned remains. A fading tangle on scrawny stems. Cut back the canes, sturdy but yellowing now at the edges. See the old scars of past cuttings, notches in the plant. The places where growth ended. Yet, new canes grew anyway, bursting below, above, around the stumps and scars, or pushed, slender, new from the ground. Pile the cuttings. See the brown, the green, the yellow. Marvel at the pile of growth. Look at the plants, now small. stripped. Ready for rest. Waiting for spring.
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Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
Meditation on All Saints' Day
It's time now. Cut back the roses down to earth. Cut back the canes that bore the flowers, raising brave heads to the sun, Now, gone to hips or browned remains. A fading tangle on scrawny stems. Cut back the canes, sturdy but yellowing now at the edges. See the old scars of past cuttings, notches in the plant. The places where growth ended. Yet, new canes grew anyway, bursting below, above, around the stumps and scars, or pushed, slender, new from the ground. Pile the cuttings. See the brown, the green, the yellow. Marvel at the pile of growth. Look at the plants, now small. stripped. Ready for rest. Waiting for spring.
I wrote this poem on November 1, 2015, after I spent an afternoon pruning and composting. I'm not someone who finds it easy to be quiet and meditative; this poem is a reminder to me of the need to embrace slowing down and waiting.
#fall#roses#change#grief#seasons#autumn#growth#plants#decay
kristine-funch-lodge
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kristine-funch-lodge
Oct 6, 2016
Oct 6, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
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