Poem-a-Day

Rose Rosette Disease
is a death sentence for roses.

Unlucky plants must be pulled
root and all

lest the virus spread to neighbors.
Those afflicted

look straight outta Mordor—
stems dense with evil

spikes, stunted buds,
leaves curled tight

like parsley. But, lo,
fret not. Carly arrives

bearing hope:
the internet believes

these angry thorns
on our Moonlight Romantica

are merely coltish growth.
Lay down your shovel, Todd.

Hide your shears.
It’s so easy to be afraid

when a thing is new—
the beak of a day-old chick

held to water pan,
the back of a hand

held to baby boy’s breath.
Or strange new moles.

It can be difficult to see
the dermatologist.

Even an older man’s life
can be new at times.

Moonlight Romantica—
fifty-some pale yellow petals

rolled up in a meaty bloom.
The rose catalog tells me

the fragrance will be sweet.