I think of the process: they are planted,
grown and then cut, bundled,
bunched, priced, put to water,
fumbled and roughed by the public
who thumb the petal folds, ruthless
in their grip and demand.
An already expiring purchase, perhaps
to be forgotten in the cold of kitchen sink,
left to wilt and later dispose.
The things of love that are given none.
And this happened. I saw a boy
stop in his walk, bend a knee to
the roses, as if to royalty.
He leaned forward, closed his eyes
and took in the majesty of sweet, velvety
perfume, prizing each second
like this was the scent
of a sleeping newborn’s crown.
How cautious he was not to wake.