Rose

The Rose

At middle-age, my father planted roses­—

the man who never painted or patched, satisfied

with the leaky roof and white siding grown green

with time.  He broke ground in early spring,

not long after mother found his truck grafted

to the shadows of a strange house in town.

I remember the day the mail-order roses

arrived, my father sifting the thick-caned,

dormant plants from the damp wood shavings

in which they were packed:  Double Delight,

Pilgrim and Prince, Wandering Star, Eden’s

Peace, Lasting Love, Scarlet Tongues of Flame.

On planting day, father plowed the sunny

plot with a new tiller—muscling the straining

machine like a wild horse he could not quite

control.  By summer, the leafed-out, stubby

stems offered their first true buds—small, tight

fists of color—yellow, white, pink, cream,

and red ellipses hovering in the stifling heat.

Late summer nights, father walked the blooming

rows, wrapped in the sweet company of roses

while we slept, every cupped and knotted

bud rising like secret love or thorny questions

whose answers slowly unfurl.  Even now,

I see him:  standing in the tilled plot, staring

down fragrant rows, his eyes searching

for hidden flowers in the moon-softened dark,

thinking of roses outside the bounds of sight,

learning how seasons of human pain pay

such a small price for the presence of mystery,

finding what comforts beauty bestows

in the place of the rose, what deep-seated truths

are throned in the petal-covered heart of the rose.