Day 77: What the Roses Don’t Know
The roses know when a storm comes through
and their branches strain under the weight of wind and water.
They know when I come with strands of twine and tape
to bind them.
They feel the pull of their limbs as they’re bound in strange arrangements
up,
up,
and off the ground.
They pant from the sting of food I place at their root,
when fuel burns and seeps
down
though the earth and into them.
They know what it is to be cut.
When I come with shears
and find all the dead growth;
the hard hips, spent to stones,
the blighted leaf,
the broken bits that burden the bush
and keep it from getting taller.
They know the wound of removal and restraint.
But what the roses don’t know,
what they can’t see
– though they may sense –
is what they’re about to become…
