The Cutting

There was a flower cutting

over the sink

last morning

Drawing life

from careless spills.

From the wasted motions

of thoughtless strangers

As with a salve

its cut was healed.

I wonder if that

bud will blossom

or that fine mesh

of roots

will ever grow strong?

I wonder if ever

it will offer cuttings

to some gardener

of its own?

Someone’s left his fancy

there

forgot awhile

the rebirth

he was called to tend.

I’m ashamed to leave it

without offering a prayer

that the one

who gave it purpose

comes for it again.