I will potter among the pots
and stand with bags of river sand,
and crouch to gather blooming moss
in vacant woodside parking lots.
And I will prune redundant roots,
and float the junk from jubilant stones
to mix afresh the bonsai’s bed.
And I will snip at twiggy shoots.
This is the bridge, so wide and cold
between good Spring and Winter bold,
which I will cross till I grow old
as corky fold, as gnarly trunk.
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