kitchen table muse

the last roses of summer

On the kitchen table in an ordinary water glass are 34 pink roses the size of quarters - the last blooms of a dry southwestern summer. Late, they came in October. They were enclosed in snow last weekend when time was suspended and the end seemed near - until slow rising sun performed a miracle. I snipped the best ones before they were gone. 34 roses in a water glass emit waves of pink light that replaces autumn sadness. Especially when combined with a pot of tea.

I've been participating in a marathon poem-a-day workshop this week (can you tell?) and am slightly obsessed with the pink roses on the kitchen table. The poem I wrote today was a bust, but the actual flowers are spectacular. I find that it is quite difficult to write creative non-fiction essays during the same week I'm supposed to be writing poetry. The place from which they originate (my mind) may be the hub, but the spokes don't match. And on a day when small outside frustrations and potential betrayals flared up while I tried to write, I fell off track. I'll scramble on again tomorrow and do my best. I think it's the alignment of the dementor planets again. And moonbeams in the house for a couple of nights - so bright that I got out of bed to turn out the lights. But you can't turn off the full moon.

I clip off the old dead branches
to force life into the ones that survive
weightless black stems feed the darkness
rekindle fires. Ashes faintly glow with
premonitions and different kinds of joy