Not the Jerry Garcia type, but the gardening one,
grabbing clippers and heading out to the yard
to nip the spent buds, toss them on the grass
so they might be picked up later,

of pinching the shriveled pink bits that only days ago
waved in the breeze, frilly hollyhocks bursting
like bright earrings on the single long stems
on which they form and grow, live and die.

I know that clipping what has passed allows
room for what is to come, but there’s always
a bit of mourning in it, especially for such limited
life cycles, knowing that all this glorious growth
is here for such a short season,

that all too soon it will entirely disappear
in the cold months, that time of rest, when
we all need to hibernate a bit. So I remind
myself, as rose petals crumble in my hand,
as I toss spent blossoms to the ground,

that I have reveled in their shy brilliance—
like music lovers swaying in their tie-dye—
how grateful I am for their return in this lush
season, surrounded as I am by such beauty,
whispering my thanks with each snip

of goodbye.