Arid days, you let me water herbs and beans.
Leaf bellies and blooms wet and revealed.
A laden vine shaken unnerved by muscled wind.
Disallowed to reap: too soon; too late,
or misjudge rot. Even when I spot danger,
or limitless sour curling past dawn.
A terrible victory, half-lies decided.
If I prepare for the savage reive,
I leave time for grieving ravaged days.
Without fear of freeze and rot,
I will plant roses and tend them well.
Random color – perhaps your favorite blush –
budding flicker to thrill you
in afternoon rain. Thaw you, remind
how half-harvest leaves us hungry
through days of petals, shadow-less
as they twist and fall. Thorns to find blood,
yet bringing fragrance only they can bend.