Wild Rose

I am no hothouse rose, no flower tamed
to sterile perfect clouds of velvet red.
I am a wild rose, ragged banners framed
by dagger thorns that guard my crimson head
from bird and beast and careless heavy tread.
Compare this petal to your lover’s lips:
her mouth is softer. On me, bees have fed
with savage bites, while you have kissed with sips.

In August, I will ripen scarlet fruits
each drying to a rattling box of seed.
The legions waiting in my fertile hips
will spread to distant fields and set down roots.
Don’t think to pick my blossoms. Fingertips
that come too near my face will learn to bleed.


Collection available! Knocking from Inside