A Tribute to Roses

While sitting and breathing

the scent of roses

across the porch swing,

remember the woven blanket

drawn from Mother’s chest

of drawers and snuggled

gently around you,

her shivering child;

the scarf flounced about

your neck, the only scrap

of femininity amidst the boys’

jacket and secondhand woolen cap;

the perfume of a beloved aunt

who died before you were old

enough to be ready.

Remember the picture

on your first diary

with the little gold lock

that gave you false assurance.

Remember the scent

you love as you sit

on the once-white swing

next to the flowering bush

your father planted

in memory of his sister

who died when you were ten.

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