All winter long I have these dreams of roses.
The six-month curse of winter bleeds to dreams of roses.
My mother loved them; thus my long obsession.
The barbed logic, the prickly enthymemes of roses.
The summer’s chain-link fences heady with Peace:
Childhood was salmons, yellows, blush-and-creams of roses.
The statues in the War Memorial gardens
are without speech, but for the scarlet screams of roses.
Comfort me with old hues, old fragrances.
These strange new shades like bruises—they blaspheme the roses.
Who was the first to imagine prayers as blossoms?
Half-conscious minds meander through their streams of roses.
My confirmation saint was Rose of Lima,
who grasped the thorns of the most deep extremes of roses.