BONSAI YEARS

When I noticed the roots growing out

Of the bonsai tray today,

After clipping and snipping the branches and twigs

For a hundred weeks,

I heard the sound of scissors in me, crying

Clipping the wings of warm tending

Unto, perhaps, a final fold

The playground of small, fallen aratilles

Turning into a dell of desolate leaves

Still infantile yet infirm in their aged minuteness

I leave the tray on the landing

The next half of stairs, growing shorter and smaller,

As I rush to answer the door

My son - home from a final tour

Of duty?