Extravagant purple and green
overspill the clay pot and table,
threaten to engulf us with wanderlust.
Late afternoon sunlight ignites leaves
to luminous violet. I come, wielding scissors,
for the great diminishing.
(Blessed be growth, within limits.)
The little pains with each amputation,
sap on the scissors, agony
of ragged edge, not-so-clean cut.
Roots yield when I poke too hard
against matted and ingrown stalks.
Cuttings go into a jelly jar—
the start of another twelve tribes.
Wandering here in this little desert,
let us gather our bread, and multiply.