for Rose Varesio on her birthday

Heads bowed, the first roses of the season
hang heavy on strong stems, some as thick
as crayons brushing the spring green grass.

They do not look up when I pass, so I lift
their crimson chins and peer into their deep
centers. If I take them from the back yard

now and vase them in the house, they’ll not
last many more days. But if I leave them,
no one can admire their profusion,

the enthusiasm with which they burst into
being. After such a wet winter, I cannot
feel anything but delight at their presence,

which has nothing to do with me but
everything to do with faith—that life
returns, even when it seems absent,

even at the coldest moments, something
is readying for blossom, preparing to
surprise us with so much exuberant,

bountiful joy.