Deadheading

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I wait too long, dreading the pinching of the bloom;

the trashing of faded glory limply browning.

Rampant roses prick my intent with minute thorns

for severing when scent sings sweetest.

Now, flaccid sheaths, daylily blooms bleed

pomegranate/pink flora blood on my fingers

as I grasp to snap them from their kin.

Remove the old and the new will flourish;

we say over and over; true, or only a mantra

we chant to appeased our aversions to what

we see as the useless weak and unsightly?

After the pinch I let them lie at their makers feet

to sing in final sweetness of summation;

to remain and bask and seep back to the whole.

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