It might just be that time again,
when the pothos is ready
for pruning.
The tender greens are not
to be snapped at —
we must wait
for each leaf
to give sign.
Each will sigh and surrender
to withering brown, 'til the stem
can release
without pain —
like little fibrous umbilical cords
left to fall
into grace
after birth,
After many moons of burning love,
each
fragment of jungle
finds
amber
descent, in the rightness
of natural timing.
Let us harvest these
exhales
like prayers
in our hands, so
between us
the wind
might sing.