Mama's Roses Poem by W.I. Stoneberger

I. Digging in the rosebed-

black beetles red ants
peanut shells oyster shells
brown slither of centipedes
partially decomposed pine cones
layers of life and death
and what remains after and between

history under my fingernails
evidence of everything
that went before

prying the tangled iris tubers loose
shaking off the soil and seperating
the wizened old witch fingers from
the new rooted knobs of growth
ripping out the trumpet vine
ripping out the wire grass
all the invaders of this peaceful garden
that I am trying to save
from years of neglect
and half-hearted efforts
trying to restore
my aging mother's aging roses
to their former splendor
give them breathing room
blooming room.

II. An hour later,
much to do -
translate bluejay squawks
watch the winds dance the pines
sniff out signs of approaching Summer
mentally stroll through remembrance gardens.

So the weeds that were left would wait,
but the roses wouldn't -
her buds already beginning to unfurl.