Garden at twilight.
Everything pruned back
cleared out.
No barren wasteland.
There’s fecundity
in this emptiness.
Seemingly harsh cuts
make room to grow.
Resting
in a space
of gratitude
for the sharp edge
of shears.
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Valerie Roney 
Dear Valerie,
Your poem is more polished than this. And spare, in that every word counts way, which is almost always good, especially because it fits the subject matter. This actually turned out ok, though more prosaic than yours. Still, there’s the added layer of echoing and reply. Hey, is it technically possible for me to write 2 separate replies at once? (One for this comment and one for the sohbet.)
xo jyanti
New employment.
Hacks at every minute.
6 a.m. alarm
asks more effectively
than all the counsellors
what’s serving me well?
who returns my love capably?
how do I take more care
of myself?
New employment
doesn’t solve everything.
Sharp shadows
harsh light switched on before dawn.
Stack dreams
for future fires.
The cutting edge and brute force
of will
Revealing
an unexpected essence
of the grain.
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Great poem jyanti! A very picturesque way of saying: I’m way too busy for this crap! It’s amazing what will inspire us to take shears to the deadwood in our lives.
And sure, you can do separate replies – just finish one thought, click “post comment” then fill in the “leave a reply” box and post again.
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…and I don’t see any reason why I can’t reply to my own poem. Came across this one by Rumi, that I think is in the same vein:
There is a shredding that is really a healing,
that makes you more alive.
A lion holds you in his arms.
Fingers rake the fretbridge for music.
I was talking to a friend tonight again about the idea of clearing out, making room, creating space for something else to come. This Rumi poem touches on how painful that can be, but how neccessary…and beautiful.
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walking the sharp edge of shears
foot in front of foot
slow and sure
skimming the edge
facing the risk
of a wound, a cut, a slice
to find the delicate balance
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The line is thin and steely blue
You deviate not left nor right
Damned if you don’t, damned if you do
You hold your bearing proud, upright
A razor’s stroll you did not choose
Yet hold the center in your sight
There’s no such thing as steel toed shoe
Protection from emotion’s fight.
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Resting in a space of gratitude
between the periods of frenzy
and anticipation
I can sigh with relief
and contentment
my shoulders relax
I can sit with myself
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Harvester
Once a scythe
Now mechanical blades,
love unchanged.
The reel’s embrace
draws stalk and head
into the maw
to be shred.
A field of death,
a bin of life,
await cold touch,
becomes a lunch.
Renewal, regrowth,
recompense, regreen
is far distant and
bear not the joy,
bear not the thrill,
bear not sweet love
of the slaying.
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