on being a rose, in Grants Ward

To survive a season,

In Grants Ward,

Hardy must one be.

The winters are harsh,

And cold.

Water enough, never,  their is.

In the winter, 

there is an abundance,

Of sleek and snow.

This is a time of storage,

When the roots need drive, deep,

Knowing summer is coming,

And the moisture,

Comes not again,

Until fall.

In spring the family comes,

To clean and service,

The graves.

They trowel around these roots,

I have carefully, driven, deep,

In the ground.

They uncover the headstone,

To remark the graves,

By rounding up the Earth,

As there mama and papa,

Taught them to do,

So long ago.

They leave me then,

to  watch over and adorn,

These graves.

Rarely do they come again,

In this year.

In the later spring,

They come not, to see,

my small roses,

that I create, then, 

to decorate, the graves.

As long as I am able,

I will continue to monitor,

And adorn these graves,

They have so lovingly, served,

These many years.