First week of the year—
 
no snow in my yard, unless
 
you count white roses.

 
 
 

Not every journey
 
needs to have yellow roses
 
waiting at the end.

 
 

What’s more important:
 
washing dishes or watching
 
yellow roses bloom?

 
 

Telling my father
 
that all his roses have died,
 
I wake from my dream.

 
 

In a blue glass vase
 
I place three yellow roses
 
and savor their scent.

 
 

In memoriam—
 
my cousin names her roses
 
for her dead sisters.

 
 
 

While I sip my tea,
 
my neighbor’s nosy roses
 
keep peering at me.

 
 
 

My neighbor’s roses
 
lost their pinkness overnight—
 
now they’re snowy white!

 

 
 
 

In a time of plague
 
red roses in a white vase
 
take the place of songs.

 

 
 
 

In a milk glass vase
 
a dozen red roses fade
 
along with the month.