The cold, folded steel
of your handles
fit precisely into my palm
where they belong
Thumb finds familiar catch
that slips silently to one side
releasing the spring
opening your blades
for action
You are my weapon of choice
as together we cut and thrust our way
to the possibility of new growth
Season after season
we have fought fibrous flesh
of one kind or another
but today I use you
for a different reason
With a delicate snip and trim and dip
down each cutting goes into the dark holes
I have prepared for them
ready to take root
if they choose
I don’t want to lose them
or you, as I sometimes do
in places that escape me
Then, as your dull grey surface
greets me once again
I know we will go on
you with your blades
and me with my hands
to create many pots of cuttings
and piles of thorns
amongst the blossoms.
© Maggie ‘Glad the Poet’ Baker 2017
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