Standing in the garden facing the four o’clock sun,
the roses drawn up to their full height,
you approach me from behind, press a piece
of paper and a pencil in my hand and ask me
to draw you a picture. I hold the translucent
sheet up to the light and traced the scene
which slowly soaks through, the proudest
rose bending at its apex due to weight of
its oversized pink blossom, petals spread
by the onset of autumn and swaying gently
in the breeze. Above it, the soft glow of the
sun seemingly just inches away.
Between them, the silhouettes of distant
evergreens cut across at a slight angle.
Satisfied that there’s nothing left to
capture, I scrawl “The Confession” across
the top of it and hand it back to you.
With a grateful smile, you fold it in three
And slide it into your back pocket before
anointing the rose with your green watering can.