I never loved the roses in my yard.
Somebody planted them and made them grow
outside the kitchen windows, like a guard
that stood when I came 20 years ago.
They brandish clever thorns and scanty scent.
They droop in vase and petals don’t unfurl.
A cut bud dies unopened, table-bent
(no matter, for I’m not a bouquet girl).

The gardener never pruned the plants enough.
He had to ill-retire. I began
to spend most mornings minutes making room
for sun on plants I like. It wasn’t tough
to clear a space outside my window span,
and now the roses seem to beg to bloom.