Rosewood
The Woman Poems: 1
Trimming the roses
gloves on, feet bare
standing on a bed of dead leaves,
wind nipping at my ears,
inexpertly wielding shears.
.
Snipping short soft water shoots
holding sticky spent rose-hips,
red in my hands —
stabbed through my gloves
by a dry thorn,
only once.
.
With winnowing wind shivering
the leaves of the cool-scented mallee
in whose scant shade I stand,
I wish:
.
May I be as tough as rosewood and still
bloom in warmth,
showy and intoxicating,
perfume hanging in the air, or
-thorns at the ready-
wintering in hardwood
with tresses bare
breathing moonlight singing through the air.
