originally published on http://Whisper and Roar.com
I snip the spent roses
From the bushes
And place the browned edged heads
Into this bag.
The bag is filled pink and yellow petals
Dried from the sun
Or beaten from the hail of thunderstorms.
I continue to the next bush.
Do the bushes feel relieved of a burden?
No longer having to spend energy on buds dead or dying?
Or do they want their dead and dying
To hold close and cherish the ending?
Would they rather have these old buds
Than the new wounds I have opened for them?
Is this the purpose of their thorns?
To keep the well-intentioned gardener away from their limbs?
A thorn snags my arm
And blood drops onto
The pink and yellow brown edged beaten petals
Like water in the oasis
Of this desert of the heart