Everyone here believes that the roses
are blooming only for them, here where the air
by the formal beds is layered with the scent
of roses. From deep in their flushed and darkening hearts
pour odors of lemons and pepper, apricots, honey,
vanilla and myrrh and musk and semen, apples and quince,
raspberries and wine and ocean, the faint
scent of blood and the fragrance of death and the breath
of the life we are living now, in this place
where the roses are blooming for each of us, alone.
"Rose Garden, Summer Solstice" by Carolyn Miller, from Light, Moving (Sixteen Rivers Press, 2009). © Carolyn Miller.
Art credit: "Charming Purple Rose," image by unknown photographer.