They are the roses of the dead.
The air around them tastes of spice and stories, forgotten and half-remembered.
No teacup roses, here.
The soil is too poor, the winters too hard, for fragility.
False or true.
These roses grew on the skeletons of dead dreams-
On abandoned barns and half-buried homesteads-
The remaining flash of colour once people and settlement passed.
History is a living, breathing creature.
It worms its way through the scars on the landscape,
Burrows into the ocean’s flotsam,
Rises out of the scent of feral flowers.
Words are a poor substitute for the world that was-
To understand what has passed,
It is important to close one’s eyes,
And taste the stories of abandoned gardens.
The weight of the past has the strangest bearers.