The mother of my children planted
tea roses for me outside my front door.
They bloom in fair weather or foul.
Like the tendresse we once enjoyed
they bloom frequently, unexpectedly
glad to share their pretty pink blush.
They greet my coming and going with
a nod, acknowledge the attention I give
them. Nonethless, they are roses and share
Once or twice while tying them back
they drew blood. A reminder I can be