I wish it could be late spring.
I would go clipping in the corner of the garden
where the silent miracle of foliage shimmers
and the roses whisper love together.
Choosing involves many courtships.
This rose is just flushing into bloom, this rose
has been paled by shade, this rose has just peaked.
Eventually two, deep coral and vivid peach,
unveil themselves,
and I clip through
their crisp stems and bring them inside.
You prop them heavyheaded in a vase
and I make fresh tea
and we sit across the table from one another
with the blushing roses and the steaming tea
and whisper, Love, together.
another american childhood 