You hacked the thorny rose canes down
with an odd vigor. Supposing it dead,
you shrugged off the loss.

But look now, a yellow bloom
that smells like honey, and several
pending buds prepared to follow suit.
And since yellow roses are for apologies
I can only assume it is not too late
for reconciliation in our dying garden,
a forsaken place that still yields
surprises from time to time.

Claire Juno, © 2014