I have thought for weeks
that now’s the time—

on these gray, cold days
with the narcissus shooting

their merry paperwhites skyward,
even the odd hollyhock clinging

to an unseasonably tall stalk—
that I must take up the clippers

and head to the back fence—
not to mention attend to the bed

in the front yard with roses
that I deadhead all summer—

to prune last season’s gangly stems
that provided unasked-for bounty.

Now, in January, a few crimson
blossoms nod their heavy heads

groundward as I ponder such
mysteries as roses in winter.

I have sometimes neglected to
prune them, hating to lop them

mercilessly, almost to the ground,
to make space for the yet-to-be,

to overcome my reluctance to
allow the dying to die, so that

what is gestating can—
with no help from me—

be born.