I’m dead-heading marigolds
in a pot on the porch,
pinching off what’s dried,
no longer useful, done—
for the whisper of a new bud,
yellow in a small green fist.
And when I’ve pruned it all—
every last thing, I keep going,
leaving only monogrammed
cereal bowls, a set of plates
with family initials, a torn
baby book and bags of used
boy clothes, the broken Ford,
chipped baseball trophies
on the closet shelf—
I prune until all that’s left
is earth in my hands.