Blair Martin

If I took a pruning shears 

to the sunshine of my neurons,

could I snip them free 

of you with precision?

Enough to trim only the residual 

of your voice & the way your shoulder 

smelled like roses when I rested 

my head against it?

Or would any attempt to remove 

your imprint rainbow into a crackled crater, 

with every day passed in your presence 

evaporating like the morning dew

dripping from a branch’s curl 

when the dove flutters into flight?

How would it feel to step down my future’s path

absent the press of your footprints on the wet grass?