Rose Garden

Arid days, you let me water herbs and beans.

Leaf bellies and blooms wet and revealed.

A laden vine shaken unnerved by muscled wind.

 

Disallowed to reap: too soon; too late,

or misjudge rot. Even when I spot danger,

or limitless sour curling past dawn.

 

A terrible victory, half-lies decided.

If I prepare for the savage reive,

I leave time for grieving ravaged days.

 

Without fear of freeze and rot,

I will plant roses and tend them well.

Random color – perhaps your favorite blush –

 

budding flicker to thrill you

in afternoon rain. Thaw you, remind

how half-harvest leaves us hungry

 

through days of petals, shadow-less

as they twist and fall. Thorns to find blood,

yet bringing fragrance only they can bend.