I think to myself, “I can’t do it all.” 
I can’t give like this. 
Anymore.
So often.
So tenderly.

I can’t give like
the land gives.

I can’t support the stem like 
the roots can. 
An intricate system of tendril extensions.
A fine collection of tangled art.

I am not fine.
The sun is too strong.
The wind, too abrasive.
External forces harry my inner voice.
The tangles are knots.
The wellness is well-less.. 
I am not well.

I summon the quick, sharp prunings of my outer leaves,
But that is all.
The only order is that in my appearance.
A facade. A fake aid. 

Am I getting enough water? 
Can the phosphorus and potassium and 
calcium cling to hollowed bones?

The single stem of my being holds a bustling, blooming bud,
and holds high on its chest a perfect gathering of pollens and petals.
It is all I can do to keep it upright. 

Should the wind blow.
Should the rains come.
Should the gopher sniff too close. 
I don’t know what will become of me.
Of us.

I’m called to find the well again. 
To drink from the reserve. 
The inner-pruning 
begins now.
Again.
And again.
I can’t do it all. 
I can’t give like this.

But I am of the land.