On Pruning

What ease I would find
were I rosebush or vine.
Were I a plant, like a tree,
I could simply resign
what was mine should break free.

Or I know this
though I struggle to grasp
what serves purpose no more
[Dry withered scraps?]
Perhaps, it did not before.

Complicated to source
why we feel such remorse
for a dwindling limb

Have we given up love
[Or a chore?]
We might yet still extort?

Drying bud in me
like a cancer.
I am without much belief,
though I could feel relief.

If I could just understand
Human glands like such leaves.

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