Gardener

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.

Advertisements

About grannysu

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

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s