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Roses are the Worst
I wait for June, in my rusted swinging chair.
I wait, on the edge of April, and watch.
the weeds creeping into my garden
and trying to grow, poking their little
lion heads past the unkempt grass.
My son left me here to stare over my garden.
Thursdays were lawn mowing days,
and my granddaughter Amy would make cookies
with me while we watched.
Her overalls were like the coat of the blue robin
who is snatching my Oregon grapes from their spiny bush.
Her braided pigtails were the colour of the petals
of the dandelion which is trying to grow.
I'm on the edge of April,
where the lazy bee flits on the berries.
My shingles need painting, and my fence is falling
into a bed of tangling ivy.
But the house is better than the pink plastic palace
where my son wanted to send me.
He said they would have roses.
Roses are the worst.