Bearing Fruit

All roses lose their petals. Half 
of the fat-pustuled seed heads 
turn to papier-mâché balloons, 
 
and deflate at the weight of my hand. 
This is the first time I have been 
able to grow my own roses. Coral 
 
and red and pink wily blossoms exposing 
their hearts to summer with a wildness 
I dream some nights. But it is only the white-yellow 
 
blooms, their orthodox garments, their devout pistils 
bowing in the posture of prayer, that offer more 
to the air than an opulent billow. Their souls, 
 
I’ll say to my children, you can smell them. 
If: the soul in its loneliness, hopes only for salvation, 
I have to imagine that the half of those rose 
 
hips that manage to survive have something 
tucked within them second to hope. A cradle 
for the soul to grow upon. Or maybe 
 
it is the loneliness itself that builds the cradle. 
The sky continues in opening, I see, 
even in all this uncertain air around us

Author's Note

2018