Saturday, June 25, 2011

Canes do not grow to the center of the plant

I don’t know how roses grow.
I’ve never selected a gawky shrub,
All sticks and thorns and angles,
Stumpy and brown, in a burlap sack.
I’ve never planted my heel on the shoulder of a shovel,
Turning the dirt to make room for a rootball.
I’ve never watched like a hawk
For the midges and thrips who suck the green juices of the budding leaves.

And so
If I admire
The carelessly exploding armful
You brought
Today, for me -- these roses --
The deep cupped petals of color now tumbled across the perfect black sheen of the piano
What I mean to say is

Thank you for being you.


  1. Love this! Barb

  2. More eloquent than I could ever hope to be... yet I can still hope!

    Beautiful. Sigh. love, Kath

  3. And I planted my heal, just last night on the heal of my only rusted, trusty, tired old shovel, and into the ground went a reluctant hosta... it was mourning its sylvan soil. Little did it know what I had in store for it.
    So many hugs to you - and all of yours.