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sometimes the work of poetry
feels redundant,
excessive even.
you don’t need me
to connect the lines
between the concept of
pruning and meaning.

you don’t need me
to construct a metaphor
unpacking the power of:

selective removal
                        of certain parts of a plant;
                        such as branches, buds, or roots
the targeted removal
                        of diseased, damaged, dead,
                        non-productive, structurally unsound,
                        or otherwise unwanted plant material.
the smaller the branch that is cut,
                        the easier for a plant to compartmentalize
                        the wound and limit the potential
                        for pathogen intrusion and decay.

you don’t need me
to conjure up some image
of a bloated, tattooed
middle-aged man
in his pyjama pants and
sons of anarchy sleeveless shirt,
moustachioed like a young charlie chaplain
hair big and wild and silver and black,
cutting back the basil flowers,
because, even now,
he doesn’t really understand
how plant sex works.
unburdening each pot
with the weight of yellowing leaves
and blank branches.

you don’t need me
to explain to you how
he contemplates his own life
wondering what needs to be trimmed,
what tools he might need,
whether or not he needs to maintain
faith in abscission or absolve
himself to a more aggressive ambition.

i’ll piece it together for you,
but come on dear reader,
really all i need to say is:

he pruned the plants on the porch in the morning
and baked a batch of bagels in the afternoon.
he’s ready for his life.

and you should get it.