Friday, February 15, 2008

Valentine pruning: blood-drop
from thorn-ripped skin, and gloves
no help. Dull shears --
a blister threatens. How much to cut?
How much to leave alone?
Every year the same conundrum.
( But each stout hip, the heart
of the matter: relinquished.)


  1. Makes me feel like I should be outside, instead of just looking outside. The roses aren't going anywhere, but how they grow.

  2. Ah, T., I can count on you to let me know when to prune my roses. How will I ever figure out Seattle's wanton seasons without you?