POEM · PRUNING AND ENDURANCE
The orchard trees have been cut until every branch knows the cost of reaching. Below them, the beds keep their disciplined colors. Beyond, the lake accepts whatever the sky cannot hold. No one calls the water obedient. No one asks the old tree whether its shape is wisdom or the record of being stopped. Still, from each blunt end, a leaf. We praise endurance because we arrive too late to see the knife.