Roses on the trail

I've been writing more poetry lately, expressing my emotions with one goal of helping others to express theirs.  And given my season there has been grief, sorrow, pain. It's been good, exhausting but good.  Cathartic. 

But I also recognize my heart's need to keep my focus on beauty, the present moment, the joy of life. I just wrote job of life- perhaps they are one the the same, 

the job of life is to recognize the joy of life. 

So I went for a walk along the Mickelson Trail, the rails-to-trails path that meanders around and through Hill City. As I walked along the old train bed, I thought of my father-in-law and his life of logging and hard work here in the Hills. I thought of my father and his labor both in Alaska and later, back in his native state of Colorado.  It was becoming a bittersweet hike. 

Then I saw roses.  Wild roses peeking through the grasses and wildflowers along the trail. These are not fragile hybrids nor showy floribundas with stunning blooms, not even the carpet roses I'd love to cultivate down a slope. These are the tough little creepers shyly filling in with fragile pink heads. The season is coming to a close and they are shedding their petals, preparing to form tough little rose hips. 

It took me back to my Alaskan childhood and the wild roses along the lawn's edge where the grass met the tangle of trees between us and a neighbor.  Wild but profuse, I loved their blooms and made "tea" from the rose hips.   So.... an ode to roses. 

The History of Roses

by Kathryn Cleveland

Dark curls bent over to smell the fragrance of summer,

tiny fingers poking yellow fluffy in the center. 

Beauty beguiling the innocent. 

Squatting by the edge in the shade of pale white birches,

I stir plucked rose hips into cool water.

A lovely tea for two. 

Childhood behind, 

now years of hothouse roses, my lover's choice to woo me.

Love on a long, thornless stem.

Today memories surface with each step,

of railroads and hard work, of beloved men who lived well.

And for me- another gift of roses.

The dark curls have faded but I crouch to inhale their perfume,

gently brush the pale yellow stamens and loose a flutter of petals,

of the wild prairie rose tangled at my feet. 

Like a child- I am beguiled by their beauty, 

I am steeped with love and tender joy.