Susan Terris
Page 2

Ring of Roses 

Early, when grass juggles beads
of water: the basket, shears,
pink and scarlet bushes.
And Mother is there
deadheading. Snip-snack
pips fall as the basket begins
to bloom with cut buds.
It’s heavy and full of thorns.
 
When I was still in toe shoes, girl
who was never going to
mother a garden, Mother’s roses
vanished when our house
was sold. In the dream,
though, they reappear,
thornless scarlets and pinks,
a careless riot
 
ringing our summer cabin.
And we three are there,
awash in scent and brilliance.
Though we know Mother’s gone,
she sighs with the wind until,
at last, I step forward,
tell her, Look. . . we
have conjured up your roses.
 

 

 

Ring Tone 

Sometimes it's the rose,
And sometimes the thorn.
 
Why wait for the phone to ring?
Or a ring of mushrooms to spore
 
At the base of a rotten tree?
The storm that brings it down
 
May snap the rose. Sometimes
It's not the big picture
 
But the minute. The ring for
The finger is missing, too.
 
The beds have hips and thorns,
And deadheads slowly mulch.
 
If you could sleep and dream,
The tree, flower, ring
 
And no-ring would still tilt
Idly just beyond reach.

 

 

Page 3

 

© Copyright, 2012, Susan Terris.
All rights reserved.