Winter is over and I find it: My herb pot, overgrown, Neglected for a season. I had good reasons I suppose: Everything was changing, All of it more important and the non-priorities, well. They're just plants, and They sort of like overwintering In a state of natural disarray. Call it hibernation. Stasis. They're fine, is the point. But it's spring now. Rain all week has made them sit In a pool of their own soil tea. They probably do not enjoy this, And I empty it. Then I notice Brown tangles and crisp leaves— Whole plants half-dead Hanging by thin threads. Thyme, rosemary, oh the sage— The sage is in trouble. Somehow It's grown long spindly stems With tiny leaves. Most have fallen Over themselves, their supports Not able to hold up their height. It did not plan for this. I know what I have to do: Grab the trimmers. Cutting back all the brown, There's just more under it And I cut that too, all the way down To bare stems in some places And in the worst cases there's just A stump of a plant left. I make mistakes: perfectly fine stems Cut in by accident. Damn. But it's done, and you can't go back. It doesn't work that way. Funny thing: I've done this before. I know, by cutting out the shit, The good has a chance to grow in— Fuller, healthier, with air and light. I'm not even scared: it's predictable. This works every time. I just keep going, cutting, trimming, Pulling out the dried up detritus and Grooming what's left. When I know I'm done (and I know), Everything looks smaller, And somehow larger and fuller. An unkempt uncertainty Replaced by condensed possibility. It's easy to imagine what will happen: The next two months of spring sun Will do to these plants what it does To all the plants of New England: Set them free in a desperate rush To grow and live while they can Before the next winter descends. Life is more resilient than you think. April 27th, 2017