Sunday, July 3rd, 2011
The first flush of roses is fading fast
and I spend much of my time in the garden
these days, deadheading and tending
to the last new buds.
Although these roses will bloom again
I will have moved away
and will be burying my face
in other fragrances.
But perhaps we will take the Abraham Darby with us
It is so beautiful.
A poem by Mary Oliver about late summer roses
to the leaves after
they turn red and golden and fall
away? What happens
to the singing birds
when they can't sing
any longer? What happens
to their quick wings?
Do you think there is any
for any of us?
Do you think anyone,
the other side of that darkness,
will call to us, meaning us?
Beyond the trees
the foxes keep teaching their children
to live in the valley.
So they never seem to vanish, they are always there
in the blossom of the light
that stands up every morning
in the dark sky.
And over one more set of hills,
along the sea,
the last roses have opened their factories of sweetness
and are giving it back to the world.
If I had another life
I would want to spend it all on some
I would be a fox, or a tree
full of waving branches.
I wouldn't mind being a rose
in a field full of roses.
Fear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition.
Reason they have not yet thought of.
Neither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what.
Or any other foolish question.