My Father Raised Roses
My father raised roses from the very root
they grew in straight, taunt, magnificent shoots.
They stretched high determined to touch the sky’s very brink
in blooms of mammoth reds, whites, yellows and pinks.
They caught the eye with scented perfumed fragrance
that aroused the senses of every passers glance.
Long stemmed, petal laden tight budding beauties
that swayed rhythmically in the wind as if by duty.
Sightseers awed as nature’s bounty prevailed
and he pruned and tended them each day without fail.
They gave him both joy and pleasure,
a satisfaction he found nothing else could measure.
In his garden he kept his dreams in secret quiet solitude
strengthened by persistence and tenacity imbued.
In his heart lay some inner deeper beauty flowing
from the scented rose to a hidden unknowing
that would be forever him.
I went by the house today
so many years after he had passed away.
Everything was changed, not a rose or bush to spare,
and the garden - it was no longer there.
Only with my eyes tightly closed
could I see and recall the beauty of the rose.
The saying then is true for all women and men
you never can go home again.
Everything changes and passes into time,
for a moment, brief as it was, I saw it in my mind.
I saw him - just as I remembered, in his element, well and alive
tending each bud and blossom where he once thrived.
I wanted to embrace, wrap him close against my breast
but the vision was his and I was but a guest.
For you Pop, Dec.27th, 1983
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