Rosa rubiginosa

I used to advise him to pick a rose 

by its smell

First,

which was like asking him to choose a girl for her personality

First,

the roses I chose

bloomed often, I cut them and left them

to fragrance the big kitchen.

The rose I have now,

Was lilac,

When I found it at the hardware store.

Now,

it starts magenta, fades to purple,

then pales to near white with dark pink edges.

I get a bud every

So often...

Like life,

I think,

I am always happily surprised to receive

He never tended to the roses

Anyway,

I remember vividly

the wild ones we saw on a walk-first

he denied they were roses at all

Despite the thorns, the tiny neon magenta buds, 

the telling

Leaves

And so I never insisted

A rose is a rose

always keeping

my scents

about me.

Painting by Maxime Maufra (1861-1918) - A Bouquet of Roses - YORAG , 19 - York Art Gallery in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons. 

Habitat

At first,

I was discriminatory about it;

ripping out only the ground

cover and displaced Kentucky Bluegrass,

careful not to yank the horsetails.

Yet the rake only brushed these down-

these (knot supposed to grow there)

“weeds”.

Well, it may have been irrational, 

but I

grabbed the hoe

and took heaving jabs 

at just the top layers.

This explains the piles of dirt

just outside the front door.

Besides
all the beetles and spiders,

webs and trash, a penny here, some tinsel there,

a brake light piece, first impressions 

and never agains, all elements were there

for a dirty job.

Then,

I went in the very back
at the base of the green wall.

The bamboo reeds sway brezzily,
tall tips tangled within the canopy of

avocado trees-whose roots really reside
next door,

these dying spears bow down
over the pergola top,

stiff brown leaves like old fingers play

the poled roof as the xylophone,

and to those-
I take the “loppers”.

The green waste bin overflows before nine am.

Saturday,

an April in Spring.

The house still in sleep, the birds pass

playing with airwaves, lilting songs and

dramatic swooping screams, 

while I sweat, arch back

my back in the strong early sun
bearing down over my shoulder.

This dirty yellow hair
clings matted to my clenched jaw.

When he wakes, he says,
it was from my earth moving-

then looks around at the vast 

open spaces, an overhaul, my latest work-

a blending of dirt brown and sky blue,

I offer him a toothless smile, and some
black coffee wearily.

Admiring the pruning skills of an elephant,

he offers-“Couldn’t write?”

“I think I will go back to sweeping

the driveway,” I say.

Painting by János Thorma (1920) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.