Yesterday, rose bushes called to me, and I picked
up lopping shears to trim their growth. Surprisingly,
the thorns didn’t prick my skin when I gathered the cut
branches to mulch them.
The red rose bush trimmed, I turned to the yellow climber
and relieved her of her dead weight, removed the bind
weed that strangled her, and watched her lift new buds to
the sky. One bud sits here.
In my tower with open windows, I enjoy her scent.
I shortened her life when I took her in for me
alone—into my short tower, into my small
home. Yet, she helps me sing.
Thank you, Mother earth, for this ground, this joy, this grace
as I, imperfect, harm you a little less than before, as I try
to share you with those who have no gardens. Please take these
tiny notes as true. I love you.
My blog poems are rough drafts.
Please respect my copyright.
If you quote, credit this page.
© 2020 Susan L. Chast