In June, what needing to be cut must mean
While the blooms fade fast, so heavy with bees
They fall on each other and block the paths,
Wind-stacked as if wanting to be gathered
And bundled, brought, offered, or discarded
And lift each stem and ask where is the new 
Beginning over and over, as you 
Shape abundance into form, immersed in
Purple-scented air, bump up against bees 
Chasing flowers even down to the ground, 
The intimate sound of their work so close 
You believe you understand at last as
You take what you wanted to be given,
What you planted long ago, so you might
Cut it back so you can cut it again.