joanna paterson

along the way

to pray
once again
the curling edges
of a dusk red rose

wiping mildew
from my mother’s grave
I trace the date –
one white
and one green carnation

choosing to let go
the loosestrife
heavy with bees

all afternoon
the scent of roses

first drops of rain –
still this humming of the bees
in the blaeberries