In the afternoon heat
I stood with clippers, sweat

streaming down my neck. I trimmed
the bushes back, cut the dead

heads of roses, eased the burden
of hydrangeas. Had I helped

stave off one more day
in this eventual hurtling

toward ruin? Had I helped
wage a little war here

against chance, exchanged
their lightening for my own?


In response to Via Negativa: Self-reflection.

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