I said I didn’t love the hybrid rose,
for unattractive foliage and fuss.
Its fragrance used to overwhelm my nose.
Its thorns are piercing to the limbs of us.
A gift of scissored roses seemed to me
akin to the decapitated bird
a cat delivers as a yard trophy,
but maybe my perception was absurd.

A tree that edged my garden fell last spring,
and now the sun beams where its bulk had stood.
Unshaded roses flourish and I bring
my shears out daily pruning. Sure I would
have voted for a native long ago,
but lately I like helping roses grow.