I remember helping in the yard
when I was small and roses broad and tall.
Thorns long as needles pricked my skin,
and petals gray as cobwebs daubed my hair.
I remember hating roses then,
mistaking their perfume for scents of soil
for worms and beetles, grubs and toil,
their color for despair.
I remember wondering was it a sin
to hate yard-work when God had made
such a beautiful world to live in.
Then I grew up. My husband brought me roses
sweet as love with sprouting shoots
I nurtured till
new blossoms spread their beauty in my yard.
Written for ReadWritePoem #16 scents and memories