For many years I ghost-walked
through grandma’s garden,
sat in auntie’s backyard—
nose in book, yet
every summer every rose
opened her fragrant self
and lived in glorious rest
in healing aroma
in honeyed light, longing
to give something
from each small self,
to those who sauntered by
unaware— problems to solve
chatting, gossiping, giggling.
I think of roses this summer,
fashion them from the sod
of my imagination
silly, I know, but
want to ask them
what their passions are—
a dancer, philosopher, a scientist
observing the observing?
Want to ask if this moment-encounter
is meant to teach me growing
from patience, from leaf
to bud, to full glory.
Want to ask if they ever felt longing
as spring rain nourished
their thirsty roots
secured in fertile loam.
Then Mary Oliver deeply reminds
with gratitude and wonder:
What does it matter,
their answer is simply to rise
in joyfulness all their days.
