Roses

I pick the deep red roses
from the bush we planted
only a year ago
and inhale the perfume
of my grandmother’s garden.

How odd to find
I’m happy now
a deep welling happiness
after all this time.
For years I walked in grief.
I’ve moved on now
past that sorrow
imperfectly healed
healing still.
I can slide easily now
into a world I remember.
As I write letters
to beloved aunts and uncles
I drink chamomile tea from cups
my grandmother used
and wait patiently for the musical chimes
of the clock she carried west.
We have brought it east again
but I think it’s timing backwards
taking me to a gentler world
a fuller richer time
a time where well-tended rose gardens
are a promise of peace.

-- Linda DeCoverly Wise