Showing posts with label rose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rose. Show all posts

Sunday, May 12, 2024

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. 

Wednesday, June 23, 2021

Holding hands



I had a grip.

A naked palm clenched

around,

I had a handle on the thing

softly carrying it with me,

until I noticed

the odd itch of thick blood

sliding down and out 

between my fingers.


Holding on too tight

but feeling nothing 

of pain or wounds

after barely

holding on so long,

I observed myself

doing it wrong.


After all-

the petals had fallen

behind me

leaving 

choices made for me.

No blessings to count,

no scent

to take in-

and it must have been dead

who knows how long...

Dried and brittle

piercing-


This is 

how I knew

He loved me not. 


Painting by Carolus-Duran, 'Portrait of Lucy Lee Robbins' by Carolus Duran, dated 1884 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons. 

Sunday, June 12, 2016

Scratch and sniff


We rose                        Sun hid
I have smelt                  falling stars
pungent peopled          drapery for day
leaning up                    steadfast
petals out                      rooted repetition
for dew                        digs deep
                   Sinks in
                   (either way).






Painting by Winslow Homer, Woman with a Rose (1879), in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

And then...

  Change is like that strong smell of cut grass or chopped wood that stops you still. Patterns, a symbol can be an illegible sign,  at first...