Cottage Rose

For eight years, you rioted—decanters of orange-yellow bloom, sweeter than spilled perfume, curved thorns like cats' claws. Unsheathed, you would have covered the house like Sleeping
Beauty's castle. Last winter's ice and endless chill undid you. I stare at your pale amputated heart and the clumps of leaves around it, false green. The landscaper rests her saw against the steps, says fresh loam might help you. A kind lie.

late spring

early fall

wind chimes whispering

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