new growth on top of stunted vines,
taking strides where yesterday's work was retracted:
it is a long road, i cannot see the end.
in my heart
there is a bramble lying dead,
with grey and brittle branches reaching
towards the pulse,
seeking life and spitting out buds
while i debate if the little green leaves
should be snipped back, pruned up,
should live or die.
while i debate, you are steady working now,
an iron forged progress that tastes like salt
(because i have cried too much)
and runs like water
(because the pipes burst with the frost).
new growth that threatens the equilibrium of
letting dead things lie:
you reach tentacles around my wrists,
keep me from pruning that which will kill itself.