My roses
have become rose
hips
she said.
Solid hips that carry
and roll
smile and
enjoy that west wind.
My mystery is blunter now
I’m resistant
to frost
I make good tea
she said
full of vitamin C
and the kick of autumn.
I remember
having petals.
They dripped heavy
with the salty desire
of passers-by
flung my way
longing to dissolve
to sweet.
We roses fear laying
that burden down
not knowing
not knowing
that our petals are
just
prom dress celebrations
of a fruit
that is yet to come.
My roses,
she said,
have become
rose
hips.
And that’s
where the
sweetness is.
Mjoy 