I Was Planting Roses the Day You Said the Word Hospice
And the sun did not stop burning, rain
did not stop silvering the highest plane, though
the earth wobbled underfoot, up to my throat
and stopped my heart on its hinges, the heart that
sometimes makes us as prickly as the young canes
I was planting, late March, so near the cruelest month.
And here I aim my shovel blade, breeding white roses
out of the dead land, composting memory and desire
into hardheaded clay. Some have shown me how to live—
how to drape the bank, exuberant with purple phlox,
creamy at the middle, rare and scented as night itself,
spreading its velour, never speaking of thorns,
that single red drop evidence of bright breath.
Others have shown me that death is but a melting
into dew, that little winters come even to snowy
Meidilands—redbud, dogwood, whippoorwill, blackberry—
a killing frost striking the bud of all things. Who’s
to say whether to fight whatever the end is or isn’t
or submit to grace along the stone wall? Our veils
cover the mystery we hold like light. First blush
shifts to last, down this rooted, forgetful body.
Linda Parsons is the Poet Laureate of Knoxville, Tennessee. She is also the poetry editor for Madville Publishing and the copy editor for Chapter 16, the literary website of Humanities Tennessee. Read more.