I remember yellow roses in his hand
As he feeds me brie and berries
Under a cherry tree
Pink petals landing on his hair
After my lover died
Someone told me that if I tried harder
I wouldn’t be so paralyzed
They didn’t want to feed me
I suppose
A gardener clipping a rose bush avoids the thorns
Learns unnecessary pain is a child’s game
That spilt blood blends with red roses
It is not the rose’s fault
Nothing comes of supposition in the realm of gravity
for those who think the degree of paralysis
can be controlled by whim
What might they say about
such grounded things as thorns?
Put the gloves away
bleed red on red if you must
I choose yellow and pink roses
Watching petals float higher than my arm can reach
Copyright Ruth Harrigan 2012
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