Inkling
an online journal of poetry and prose

04/13/09

 M Y    H U S B A N D,   P L A N T I N G    R O S E S

Roses won't grow here the neighbors all say,

but my husband turns the netted earth

and tills a border in the lawn.

Our first anniversary and already we know

each other’s predilections––I protest

the expense, the extravagant gesture;

he listens, smiles, does not give in.

The branchy starveling bushes begin blooming

in late spring, but in this year of flooding

a powdered whiteness coats the leaves

taking back their sheen.

Finally in August heat, I am out of temper

and idly begin to weed. The lawn is taking back

the ground he claimed, and what I pluck at

as diversion, waiting for the mail,

now becomes specific––aiming at the fescue,

stealing back this stolen space.

Three bushes of the twelve have died,

their branches blackened, waxy-ended,

but the others start to bloom again.

I've made this mistake before––

expecting beauty to be fragile, underestimating

the persistence of luxuriance and color.