I. Digging in the rosebed- <br /> <br />black beetles red ants <br />peanut shells oyster shells <br />brown slither of centipedes <br />partially decomposed pine cones <br />layers of life and death <br />and what remains after and between <br /> <br />history under my fingernails <br />evidence of everything <br />that went before <br /> <br />prying the tangled iris tubers loose <br />shaking off the soil and seperating <br />the wizened old witch fingers from <br />the new rooted knobs of growth <br />ripping out the trumpet vine <br />ripping out the wire grass <br />all the invaders of this peaceful garden <br />that I am trying to save <br />from years of neglect <br />and half-hearted efforts <br />trying to restore <br />my aging mother's aging roses <br />to their former splendor <br />give them breathing room <br />blooming room. <br /> <br />II. An hour later, <br />much to do - <br />translate bluejay squawks <br />watch the winds dance the pines <br />sniff out signs of approaching Summer <br />mentally stroll through remembrance gardens. <br /> <br />So the weeds that were left would wait, <br />but the roses wouldn't - <br />her buds already beginning to unfurl.<br /><br />W.I. Stoneberger<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mama-s-roses/
