Deadheading the rosesWatching while you work in aMore Like This
corner of the garden, near a
cherry tree you planted years ago.
Your hands, leather-clad, work the
clippers that chatter with
each cutting as petaled heads fall.
I tremble as you slowly approach my
favorite, the one that reminds me
of a fine pastel wine.
I've never sipped its nectar, but
admired its hue of palest green
in the heart of a white rose.