A Garden of Roses
They were feathers of fuchsia people
clinging to their mother
her veins;
protruding stalks of light and love
before the colors bled into her breast.
They were small then, hugging her shifting body
and waiting for the bees to come-
waiting for fall to pour out,
open her up
and let them be born.
Now, they are hand in hand
patiently waiting,
but for something different:
for the air to drink what it must
for the snow to cloak what it must.
They will rest peacefully
until the coma sleeps
and she will, again, bear feathers of fuchsia people.
She is seen, never spoken of
she is planted in spots dedicated for
others to lie down, resting their feet atop metal chairs
to talk and eat and drink.
Still, the coming of seasons will
step forth a second time
and bleed into her breast.
