This year I did not trim
the roses.
Yet, gardeners
next to Town Hall savagely
clipped theirs for the winter
and maybe they know what they
want, neat shaped bushes with
brilliant explosions in late spring,
but I, trusting to nature, or was it
laziness, also a mark of nature,
let my roses grow wild.
The bucks and does enjoyed the buds
that might have become June’s
red eminences. Now, viewing the remnants
of our ruminants’ breakfast, I paused.
They left a few buds glowing against
the green, but a nest, revealed
by the lost blooms, shocked me.
A humming bird built a fortress in the roses,
so small my thumb might burst it.
Unannoyed by March wind and wildlife,
this birthplace affords evidence of life.
Its occupant now visits our peonies and
rhododendron, our lilacs, narcissus,
and day lilies, all providing our busy visitor
with infinitesimal banquets.
