Thursday, August 16, 2012

The scent of roses

I could always smell the roses
When I was in the kitchen
Oozing up from that near-dead
Plant my grandfather
Put behind the house
Just after the family moved in
After the war
A decade before
I came to live there
A living poem
With withering limbs
And a scant handful
Of blooms sticking out
From the end of mostly
Dead branches
The plant somehow surviving
From season to season
Spouting up again
After each winter’s snow
Always managing
To push out a handful
Of flowers
Whose scent filled the air
And carried into the kitchen
Especially on very warm days,
A plant still there
After my grandfather died
And my grand mother
Moved out,
Still lingering in me
A living memory
Reborn each time I catch
A whiff of rose
On warm summer days,
Me still that little boy
Drenched in the scent
Of my grandparents’ love poem,
Seeing them still
Holding hands on the back porch
As sunset falls into evening
And then into the deepest dark
The scent of roses
All around them

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