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the rose

Originally posted on Songs of Fragile Thunder:

my mother grew tales of

scattering away remains of my
hyancinth seeds, my dandelion

and each day, we pricked our
fingers, like

sleeping beauty,

while the ground sucked the blood
from our young finger-

and scared us away,
flying among the back of my
dandelion buds until all we could see

were the red, red roses
of my mother’s bushes.

So she plucked one,
a delicate child,

her hand, a thorned mess

and touched its pricks against
our soft cheeks.

“listen”, she told us,
and we listened with a hard yearning,
scratching our skin against its thorns until

our cheeks cried tears
of scarlet red.

“i love you”, she would tell me
on my birthday, placing a single white rose in the center of

my scarred palm.

and I would trace the thorns,
feel along the pricks that caught against
my roughened fingers.

press down hard, and…

View original 94 more words

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Nana with Rose Petal Tears

2014-04-09 07.42.25

Rose petals, like teardrops,
fall softly to my kitchen counter,
surround the vase where the wilted flowers
droop their heads in reverence to the
stooping, plucking, pruning

of Nana tending to her roses
crouching in her gardening shorts,
as I play in the field behind her house,
searching for rabbits’ nests and pulling out
my dollhouse to set up in the quiet patio shade,

of Nana sweet and fragrant as the roses
that she tended, bare legs exposed, a rebel
of a time when women wore only skirts and hosiery,
bustling about in her slippers and shorts,
cultivating an escape from everyday life

of Nana’s hair, soft between my fingertips,
like rose petals, as she lies in bed, life gradually
slipping through grasping hands, ice chips, greeting
cards, and tear-soaked tissues encircling roses
on the bedside table

of my Nana who never cried, at least not that I
can remember, but if she had, I know her tears would be
rose petals, cascading between dreams and
backyard memories, sweetly-scented and multi-hued,
formed together into one final bloom

©SpiritLed 2014


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