(a garden or part of a garden devoted to roses)

Mine consists of three straggly bushes
stubbornly rooted by the backyard fence.

Not the ones Mrs. Young planted here that
we inherited after we bought her house—

those died, one by one, before he did—
but three replacements that long for

more sun, reaching long tendrils toward
the light as morning glories twine

their thorny limbs. I have never prayed
a rosary, but that, too, is the older meaning

of a rose garden, likening petitions to God
to a garland of roses, to the strings of beads

used to count every Hail Mary, Our Father
and Glory Be, as my Catholic-raised husband

was taught. He, who dug holes for the new
roses years before vanishing into mystery.

If all prayers are heard, if those who pray
receive answers in some mystical form,

then let my little rosery grow gratitude
for the generosity that graces my life.

And let me take every opportunity
to bend and inhale each blossom

that comes, no matter how imperfect
or bug-bitten, no matter how long

it lives. Because each is a uniquely
petaled miracle—never another

exactly like it—like him. Like you.
Like me.

•••

(for those Roses in my life who carry the name)