It is late in the season, perhaps too late
to take cuttings and let them soak
in that mix of water and hormones,
to late maybe to sprout enough roots for replanting.
But your sense of timing has always been a bit off,
and so in they go to the water and waiting,
letting the sun and God work.
If history and memory serve me right,
a few will survive.
About this poem
About cuttings. About starting something new later in life. About finding love, also later in life. Poetry is rarely about one thing.
PS: The photograph is not one of mine. But it is legally used.