to prune but wilted petals
wave provocatively from
dried shrubs here among the
famished flowers and the fading sun is
pleasing on my bare back.
Sticky tongues of desiccated lizards
flick the spidery veins of elongated
roots plucked without mercy from the
Dew drops glisten on scars and nicked
fingers bleed from circumcised petals
sheathed in thorns.
I know it it is too early but the languishing
garden screams out for structure,
the need to be in control again.
Art by Jill Martin