I wandered tonight amidst the ribbons of color in my garden
Do roses ache as they age?
Is it painful for them?
If we could hear them
What sound would they make as they gradually opened?
A glorious symphony?
The nervous giggle of a virgin unveiling?
Could we ever be silent long enough to hear?
Would their wilting come to them as a surprise?
If given the option, would they have the wilting petals removed?
Would the older roses welcome the tightly shaped, younger buds?
Or would they resent and hate them
Tearing each other down?
Would they greet one another with a Holy kiss?
Would the sound of emerging thorns
Resemble the wail of a baby teething?
Would they opt to medicate?
Do the thorns merely provide protection against outside predators,
Or against domestic beauties who share the very same bush?
I noticed a rose drooping, face down
Half of its petals were already scattered on the ground below.
I’ve heard the droopy ones strain the rest of the bush.
So I snapped the bloom off at the nape of its neck
And put it out of its misery.
But afterward, I decided to leave the rest of the dying blooms
To fall naturally.
Because I have a suspicion that the strain caused by the older blooms
Is somehow beneficial to the rest
If only to provide a noble example
Of the dignity in dying.