In the Rose's Defence

Tread me not,
clad in Wellingtons,
britches fabulously
mired in muck—

for it was you, not I,
that chose these light,
tender petals,
my stem firm and bright,
my colors softer than
the pink found at twilight—

I was there—settled in my plot,
minding affairs of my own,
drawing a child’s smile,
eyes stretched wide;

a place for butterfly or fly
to quietly land,
bathe in the sun,
until some stealthy
blood-bold avian strikes
and sends it stumbling—

How nefarious!
Your nugatory disdain
of truthful, bliss-bound bouquets—

my only acts of honor:
called to raise beauty,
to assuage a breaking heart,
to bring fire to the lips,
and hunger for love’s forgotten heights—

Now I will speak!

No chains of untruth can bind
words girded by the honest
proclamation of affection.

No sword or gardener’s knife
can silence a flower or a lover.

No boot can finally
trample hope nor wonder—

We are creatures passing in the night.

Swing your pruning shears,
cast my lifeless body into your basket,
place me slapshod in your vase,
in the middle of your dining room—

and watch me, for one last minute, shine!

My scent will mix with the wine,
my breath unlock innocence—

September 24, 2026