Growing Roses

GROWING ROSES

Phillip Hatcher

Roses line the wide white face of my mother’s home. I remember, as a child, the churning she would order me to do for her. With every twist break and trowel cut, I tilled the spindled creature’s beds. Busted the knotted and tangled roots of fungus and molded filbert shells. Some kind of dimpled blanket she had me fold and tuck.

Every year their blooms became giant bowls beckoning. Muddied green scaffold branches beneath like hung and outstretched skeletons. Derby Hats sprouted from thorny bones; some display of tribute. Bursts of cosmic mingled pink and porcelain. Chalices of crimson. Cupped hands of sherbet orange.

Rarely seen is the work of worms that curate such beautiful things. Presents are a barrier before prices paid hard.