Birthday Poem Poem by Norman Coppola

Roses do well
To mark the day you were born
Just before summer,
When there are few left budding.
They're just as fitting as they were
When you were in full maternal bloom.
The last ones are always yours.
Today, in our graying spring,
I've found more than ever, all colors.
The browsing deer left them for us.

As the day neared in years gone by,
I looked as I drove for bushes
Blooming late along the road,
Close to ruined homes
And in the wild. Perhaps
You never knew the hunt
You rewarded with your smile.
It's easier now; our friend,
While she was here, left them for us.

I know the stab of thorns well,
By now enough to almost like it.
My blood, of course, adds to the gift
Of late-spring roses. It's why those
Sterile, scentless blossoms
Bought from a florist just won't do,
And why, whether few or filling
A vase, those I cut tell true
That I love you.