One Rose Remains

My grandmother counted the year
by her roses.

Long before anyone called
across the holler,
she had already wandered among them,

lifting a branch,
brushing dark earth from her apron,
smiling over some fresh surprise
that no one else had yet discovered.

Scarlet pressed against cream.

Soft yellow leaned into deep crimson.

Peach stood beside shades
I have never found again,
no matter how many gardens
have welcomed me since.

Children believed
they had wandered into a story.

Grown people forgot
whatever burden had followed them
up the mountain.

Even skeptics
always dwelt longer than intended.

My grandmother never spoke
of creating beauty.

She simply cared
for what she loved,
season after season,

until the hillside answered her
with more color
than a dialect could ever gather.

Time claimed that garden.

One by one,
the bushes disappeared,

until nothing remained
where such splendor once lived.

Only a single rose grows now.

I planted it high on the mountain
beside her grave.

Each year it opens
to the same sun
that once warmed her garden,

and when I stand there,

I can almost believe
she has stepped away
only long enough

to gather another armful of roses.