For weeks, long globes of green,
hard within crisscrossed arms: 
as if those branches will never
allow a softening.

Believing what I saw online,
I push hydrangea cuttings
into thick discs of cucumber,
then lay them in the soil.

What part of my heart remains
raw and unyielding, what part
bruised or chewed through
like an old screen?

High humidity, ample 
light, birdcall rocketing through 
dense arches. So much of the world
still tests me.

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