Along the side of the dirt street
where I filled childhood hours
climbing apple trees, walking
the oil barrel across the lawn,
rolling down hill, chasing
lightning bugs, and making mud
pies, clover chains, and angels
in the snow—along that street
each spring wild roses celebrated
sun, rain and their own freedom
from gardeners, breeders, and concrete.
Their delicate petals were pink,
fragrant, and single-layered.
They had no sense of guilt for
thorns or absence from garden
competitions or the rose show.
If I were a rose, I'd chose
to be a wild one. If civilization
means the end to wild roses,
I'd not be tamed.
Copyright © 2011. Wilda Morris. All rights reserved.