santos scribes

from the high tight corner of an old breakfront hutch
a chain of sturdy green leaves grows up and over

down the side of a cracked terra cotta pot.
at once, the plant vine dangles then snaps

in the chubby hand of a triumphant toddler below.
the jutted brown stalk is left empty

a second stem with only two single leaves
a pile of green supple ash breathes easy at their feet.

perhaps some things are best let go of, like
things that have lasted so long the

soils have run dry on depth
and compassion; fortitude.

what will it mean to start over, again
with less and embody what becomes

time and new growth, watered
by truth and the tenderness of a waxing winter moon?