Dead-heading rosesWatching while you work in aMore Like This
corner of the garden, near the
cherry tree you planted years ago.
Your hands, leather-clad, work
the clippers that chatter with each
cutting; the petaled heads that 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, only
admired its hue in the light through
a pedestal glass; the pale green
in the heart of a white rose.