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
Set out years ago
Some no bigger than dust particles
Of the soul
Along the roads and paths
Thought I’d find my way back,
There’d be time
There’d be years
Left before the sand
Absconded with the hourglass
To find the trail of dust and crumbs
Sweep and pour them
Back into the soul
Add a few ingredients
Create once more
From the beginning
But birds and squirrels
Feasted on the leavings
And I’ve no desire
To return to where I started.
Days of summer
Are so few numbered.
Golden days filled with heat,
Traveling into warm nights
A favorite season.
This July begins,
With no need to seek life at its cradle
A new journey starts.
It is time to put away,
Rid and purge,
Box up junk,
Hold the garage sale,
Donate what’s not needed,
End a chapter,
Turn the page.
Reach, stretching toward loving hands,
In that place of life and peace
Where morning is heralded in birdsong,
Written in silly verses of the cardinal, the tufted titmouse,
The mockingbird, and finches–
All who do battle with cute well fed bushy tailed vermin
Attempting to steal away all the seed,
I wake each morning beside beauty beyond any,
Any I have ever known,