Smelling the Tea Roses

She doesn’t wear gloves so she can feel the silky buds.

She grows
tea roses
on both sides
of her yard.

Up on top
of a hill,
above the city
on a quiet street
where it’s sunny
and warm 
most everyday
and cool 
and breezy
at night.

Her roses grow
tall and straight
and prolifically push out
lush orange and pink
and variegated red buds
that fully open
in the Spring
and throughout 
the Summer.

She wears
a denim apron
when she tends
to them, daily,
uses pinking shears
to prune them
as she prefers
ragged ends 
on their stems
hoping more water sucks
up into them 
and extends
their time 
in her many vases.

When she works
among her roses,
she ties her auburn hair
into a tight bun
on the back of her head,
then wraps it all
in one of a dozen
elastic head bands
she keeps in her
apron pocket,
keeping her hair
from falling 
and tangling 
in the thorns
and stems and leaves,
when she bends
to pick up dead petals
or prune or deadhead
a flower that’s past its prime.

She doesn’t
wear gloves or sunglasses
so she can feel
the silky flowers in her fingers
and see every nuance
of every hue 
in her floral palette.

When the days
grow shorter
and a bit cooler
and the light gets lower
and flatter,
she watches 
her garden recede, 
her roses lose their leaves,
and likes to quietly 
stand in the middle
of her naked tea roses
and recall the sweet smell
of summer 
and savor the promise 
of the next season.