Written in cursive,
 
my letter to my grandson
 
is a dead white rose.

 
 

Midsummer journey—
 
if my father had a grave,
 
I’d bring one red rose.

 
 
 

A warm spring morning—
 
I place the names of roses
 
on my eager tongue.

 

 
 
 

First summer dry spell—
 
petal by petal the rose
 
dismantles itself.

 
 
 

In a time of plague,
 
one yellow rose in a vase—
 
this will be my song.

 
 
 

In the rose garden
 
an old woman stops to pray
 
near the yellow ones.

 
 
 

Dreaming of summer,
 
the Mexican gardener
 
sharpens his rose shears.

 
 
 

First week of winter—
 
the path to the rose garden
 
is dusted with snow.

 
 
 

In telling the rose
 
how I think it should unfold,
 
I have lost my way.

 
 
 

Languid afternoon—
 
two old men walk hand in hand
 
through the rose garden.