(for Sue Reynolds, visiting from Canada)

While you nap, exhausted from the long
journey from your side of the continent
to mine,

I grab the clippers and head for roses
that my long-ago neighbor Inez planted
for us here on Santa Ynez Way.

I meant to get to this before you arrived,
but other must do’s intervened.
So on this mild, almost-summer day,

standing in a gentle Delta breeze, I stand
before Inez’s gangly bush roses, study
the tired stalks leaning groundward.

The first blooms of the season have
fallen, coating the ground with red petals
gone pink. I always hesitate here,

reluctant to cut but knowing that
to trim the long stems will lighten them,
allow new blossoms to arrive—

as you have, my friend from afar,
that you, too, will stand tall after a rest,
fresh bloom in your cheeks.

And with that thought, I make
the first snip and watch the still-
supple stem snap to attention,

vibrantly green and alive,
already growing into
whatever comes next.