We stop to inhale
          the fragrance of the clusters
of petite red roses
          in front of the Frary House
on Main Street
          in Old Deerfield, yellow-gold
leaves loosened
          in the wind from sycamores
along the street.
          Leaning our faces down, we
bend back stems,
          lined with thorns, to the side
with our fingers,
          then draw in each bouquet’s
scent, a sublime
          sweetness apt for such a small
bloom, and walk
          a few paces further, noticing
a raceme of frosted
          white roses, whose edges are
limned with
          intimations of rouge, and stride
closer toward them
          to breathe in the tonic of their
evocative redolence,
          such a full aromatic fragrance,
that they manifest
          themselves, so vividly, beneath
a cerulean sky,
          amid the sunlight gilding the day,
that they smell
          just like they look: silver-petaled,
so lush in their folds.