Roses | saltwindspoet

Roses

Wild, tangled roses on a broken-down trellis
caught your eye.

Was it the ruined condition of the wood
that first beckoned
or the rain-fresh roses?

Each morning, I’d find you painting
                                                weeding
                                                digging
            before breakfast
            before anyone else was up…
                        tending that one neglected bush
                        among so many.

I remember your gnarled hands bleeding
from the rude thorns
red stains on cotton

told you that you could borrow my gardening shirt
that there was no need to soil your good coat …
            and realized, even as I spoke
            how foolish my words must have sounded
            to a woman
                        who could feel the dark cells
                        growing rampant
                        within.

The old Cape roses reached full bloom
the week after you left
redder than I’d ever seen them bloom.

Where you scattered your last hours
            there are shimmering petals;
                        as in a summer mist
                        I dreamed beyond the trellis…

You, beneath the roses changing form
            bones turning to root
            sinew to vine
            blood to rose…

You, growing now, beside my window
offering sweet-scented advice
and occasional thorns.

For my mother, Natalie Green Acciavatti