I am always the type to feel guilt
in snapping off the dead done-blooming flowerheads
from the shrubs. My mother
tried to reassure me, showing me how already
new, plump buds begin to sprout,
orange cheeks beginning to purse. She said
we had to snap off the dead to allow
for the growth of the new,
but I could never follow in her footsteps
through the garden, browned and shriveled
buds in her wake, my own
hands too guilty to do the same,
plump and shivering under the June sun.