Are these the same sort that grew
below the bedroom of my childhood?
Every spring those leaves turned dark and lovely,
a few lacy blooms tatting across the top.
Was it my father’s shears, or the light or ground
which made those bushes so much less than these,
this on-going aisle of froth and flower?
The breeze brings them to such tender trembling,
like women made of unshed tears.
Melissa Carl teaches world cultures, advanced placement European history and gifted seminar in York, Penn. She lives with her husband, son, dingo, and a dozen hermit crabs. Melissa’s soul requires ocean, so she spends her summers in Oak Island.
© 2013, Melissa Carl