Rose Voice, photo and all text © Irene O’Garden, 2014
A poem newer than this bloom–7am today:
I wanted to write you,
yet am I lost
in the voices of roses.
I wanted my pen,
not the coaxing touch of peach,
the goatsbeard’s palomino mane,
the sticky resins of fertility.
I wanted to write you
of things more important than spring,
but my words are webbed in petals,
scattered over the fields
like daisy and bedstraw,
caught in the purpletipped clover.
I cannot gather or release them.
I cannot write or speak them.
I am lost in the voices of roses.