Your words dance like pruning shears—gentle, precise, alive. They whisper wisdom: to prune is to trust the earth’s rhythm, where loss births light, and every cut hums with the promise of tomorrow’s bloom.

When frost bites last, yet spring’s breath lingers near,
Let scissors dance where roots and foliage tear.
Not by the clock, but where the old skin parts—
A pause to mend what wildness gnaws apart.

The moon knows—the brittle ones must shed,
Their thorns, their weight, the shadows they’ve outgrown.
Curate the vine: where blossoms brave the sun,
Spare the shy buds ‘til summer tucks its gun.

Time’s an archer; till the arrow’s flight,
Aim where the heart begins to wither’s light.
Prune not the wound, but the scar that heals…
For growth is born where tender hands conceal.