Deadheaded

Today I deadhead the withered blooms of my memory,

pinching off the bruised petals of a former self.

A sudden lighting of the mind; clean, decisive, severing the stem where pain flows.

Sap runs clear again.

The garden forgets the storms.

I return to a younger season,

soil untouched, roots unafraid

where light shines without question.

What fell is not erased but buried

dark sweetness feeding what comes next.

I made room for gentler colors,

for futures unscarred by frost.

In this quiet tending,

I choose what grows,

and let the rest fall away.

A hundred springs wait,

patiently,

for my careful fearless hands again.