Pruning

This wobbly world now leans toward light of spring
that melts forgetful snow and stirs again
the fearful dust^*and memories that bring
me here among the dead and dying limbs.
I cut perfection lost to time, once red
and pink and glossy green, now gray, I fear,
from my neglect. Awash in tears I've shed,
I look and wonder, "Will it bloom this year?"
I gently gather up a branch and close
my hand around her hardened thorns; I see
the drops as red as a remembered rose,
neither living nor dead but for me.

I held her hand a year ago today
and more and more and more is pruned away.