Oak Mountain Echoes

Trimming the Roses

This house became a home, so nearly mine
That something of me clings to it, to haunt
New tenants, as its old ghosts haunted me.
For seven years I paid the rent on time,
Enjoyed the roses and let them run untrimmed
Over the fence; buried my dog in the garden
The night he died; I dug the grave in the dark
And laid bricks over it beneath the rose bush.
A pair of squirrels who lived in the sycamores,
The cardinals, jays, and two old mockingbirds,
Provided year-round entertainment free.
Here I nursed my daughter through the flu,
And spent some sickbed time myself one winter
Indoors, while the north wind whistled down the chimney
And made the gas fire pop and flicker low.
Those days, the house was like another country;
News of the outside world came through some wires
Snaked silently into the house, and filtered out
My ancient, time-encumbered radio,
Altered thereby, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Well, it was home, and all the ghosts were friendly;
I hope ours prove so. Now I must move my books
And move my daughter, and leave my dog in the garden
Under the roses where he used to bury bones,
Leave the birds and squirrels, the quince at the corner,
And the roses just as I was getting ready to prune them
And maybe divide the iris, or buy some new;
Leave the wisteria that I trained to grow
Across to the hedge, making a summer house,
A playhouse for my daughter, years too late.
I can just bear to leave, by telling myself
There’s hope I’ll find another dog I like,
And another place that will feel like home. Now, life
Is like this house. That ought to be a lesson.
It isn’t a part of you, but only the place you live in,
Paying the rent and keeping the property up,
Or letting it go, but subject to sale or transfer
After you’ve ground its rich soil into your hands
And sent out fine white roots into all its cracks,
And just when you’re getting ready to trim the roses.

Page 19 (copyright 2001 Joanne R. Cage)

1st prize, National contest. Published in Encore, 1996.