Yesterday, I cut back the burning bush
on the hill beside my house.

It never spoke to me.
Not once.

It had grown higher
than I stand, unchecked
for now thirteen years,
and never commanded me
to remove my shoes.

It is recommended
that the wings be trimmed in late winter,
before new growth begins.
The fly-away branches-gone now. Just
fragments discarded on some sad morning
and a rooted scrag in place
awaiting rebirth.

I see no divine providence
or transcription of holiness
in this. Hope will follow
in the spring.

Now, a deepening chill ebbs
-in vain.
Winter is not yet over,
and I tarry in the garden
alone.