Bittersweet

Bittersweet

Every fall, you cut it as close
to the ground as you can,
thrusting the lopper blade
below ground and snapping it off,
unwind it from scarred trunks,
pull it from the upper branches
that bow and snap back
as it comes away;
every spring
it returns as tender shoots
like the feeling of someone
you try to forget,
suddenly fresh in memory,
and too densely tangled
to cut out.
You may wonder
why you don't make the effort
to pull it up by the roots,
or why you always trim a length
and twist and weave a berry bouquet,
wax beads yellow and red,
to hang on the kitchen nail
and keep you company
as you wash your tired hands.

Author's Note

Always interested in what strikes you as strongest and weakest in the writing.