Moonlight Romantica
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.
Copyright © 2026 by Todd Turnidge. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on March 20, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
“Sometimes new things are scary—moving to a new city, learning a new job, cultivating new love—and I find I am often subject to an internal voice telling me all is lost, that everything will end in catastrophe. This poem pays attention to these fears, and opens itself to a second voice, a calmer one that fosters patience, courage, and hope.”
—Todd Turnidge
Todd Turnidge
