Native Growth
I looked for the roses
in December, put
nose so low to hard
ground, as if smelling
what was cold and dead
already could be enough
to satisfy the hunger to
bloom in unfiltered light.
You always said the color
red doesn't please once
it dries a weak brown hue.
Too quickly we were
caught on stubby thorns,
green as the fibrous stem
serving its double duty —
channel both from and to
source of nourishment.
To dig deeper does not protect
against the tear in skin thin
as the paper you'll sign
to stop my planting in this
climate zone so far north.
Native growth, you remind
me, wants nothing to survive.
What it needs it claims its own.
© 2013 Maureen E. Doallas
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
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9 comments:
Very rich poem. It pricks me like a thorn.
There's 1000 poems waiting to be born from this incredibly powerful write. Such is the power of that native growth...can't deny the fertile soil.
Native growth, you remind
me, wants nothing to survive.....some really cool lines though...and they bear a truth as well...smiles.
Thank you for this! Great poem.
Thank you for this! Great poem.
I love your language, and the way you pace your sentences.
this great work - your voice sparkles throughout - a triumph, with a voice that stands alone.
Great metaphor here...
roses here are as feisty as our native plants. both can be spiky.
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