The rose bush died.

Brown stems wither and shed their leaves.

Thorns are still sharp and vengeful

As if in anger at an early demise.

I wear my gloves to fend off damage.

The thorns prick, surprising

me with pain. Blood soaks the cloth

like tears that cannot be brushed away.

Roots surprisingly strong

Grip the earth in rebuttal of my efforts

To pull them loose and clean the bed.

I kneel in the dirt, tired from the struggle.

In time, another rose will be planted.

It will be fragrant and beautiful,

A reminder of the one lost.

I will water its petals with my tears.


About grannysu

storyteller, writer, poet, gardener, countrywoman
This entry was posted in A River of Stones, aros, NaPoWriMo, short poems. Bookmark the permalink.

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