You probably don’t know this,
but there’s a bed of roses, miniature
ones, in bloom, and they’re
the grip of purple vetch, while
bunched by bromes, and topped
by thistles bearing green pumpkin
head buds pushing purple Mohawks.
The sky is gray. Rain mists.
Weeds compose once clean
decomposed granite paths.
It’s painful to get around.
Foxtails cling to socks, poke ankles,
foot. Filaree corkscrews through
shoes. Prickles abound.
And you can’t hear them scream,
these roses you don’t know, though
it seems they should, after all
they’re dying inside, despite
the show that others try to hide,
deny. And they may survive, but
with a gardener’s hand
the roses would surely thrive.
really the writing process.
I am the conclusion