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.
Taps and Ratamacues 
This poem is beautifully written. I feel the chill.
Thank you.
You’re welcome xx
interesting allegory and it makes a good point. When your faith/beliefs are cut down there is loneliness, even if those beliefs never spoke to you, they were still there and sometimes that brings comfort and sometimes not.
Thank you Melinda. A thoughtful response. The weariness can be rough and it is ok to address it. This poem started as a simple chore and grew into a larger thing because I was wondering about and willing to see the symbolism.
You’re welcome 🙂 I’m glad you let the poem grow and explore the symbolism. It made. For interesting reading.
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