I spent some time outside today, whacking away at dead and not-so dead roses. I was trying to reclaim an area that has some old moss roses which are thorny beyond words but in amongst it all is a whopper of a dog rose. I’m still standing, but I’m not sure what to do with the pile of trimmings.
Still and all it was a great day to spend outside.
Cutting away the dead roses, thorny
stalks brown and tangled canes which grab my sleeves
setting to work on my ungloved hands which
accept the thorns sharpened by last winter.
The drops of blood dry in the crevasses
barn red paint dry as the skin beneath it
the hot scratches itchy, stinging, pricking,
the last revenge of the sprawling wild rose
Then there’s the question of the dead branches
they fight being bundled, can’t be carried
despite being cut down to the ground, they
grow upward, flaunting curvy abandon
I can release the thorny, weedy wont,
by holding to the fragrance of the rose.
