Down to nubs. Every February.
Just a week short of the holiday.
That holiday, a few weeks passed,
fell on the side of mercy.
At least this year.
I continue to nose in on them.
Nothing to smell. Yet twice each day.
A loyalty previously unknown to me.
What I've begun to notice,
as workdays stumble into March,
is the first thing rose bushes grow back.
Their thorns.
The stems, now smacking with assurance,
sprout leaves next.
Asking the sky -- expectant and green.
Hearing the answer -- blushing reddish.
The order of the rose bushes:
- Fierce necessity
- Sway and be patient
- Expect that brilliant day
So I amble in a serpentine pattern back to my desk.
Fixing my gaze on the Four O'clock sun.
And all the while, setting expectations.
