Inheriting the Garden

We promised ourselves we'd plant posies
but all that time the bed lay barren.

It was summer when we moved from that place.
And the world seemed filled
with the bursting of dandelions.

The former tenants of this house understood seasons:
snowdrops, lemoinei, jackmanii—

But now, here, in late autumn
two monstrous roses press,
vulgar against the kitchen windowpane.

And too often at breakfast
I find myself holding my breath.

Copyright © 2004 Ren Powell All rights reserved
from Mixed States
Wigestrand
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission