1906
for Eleanor Lantry (1899-1998)

Imagine now a house, built on that plain
along a creekbed at the edge of town
and picture, with me, a low garden fence
whose slats lift sweet clematis to the air
purple and red, their tendrils weaving dense
patterns of light and shadow near the brown
landscape outside the boundary lines, and here

a young girl, maybe seven, works to clear
a few stray vines away from roses grown
specifically for show- to win a prize
her grandfather is hoping for: the fair
is three days off. The cobalt butterflies
are dancing all around her, then they're blown
by a small wind across the desert's edge

and she, alone, forgets the solemn pledge
she made her grandfather: she wouldn't touch
the show roses, each pruned to make one bloom
perfectly timed without a day to spare.
A scented form entrances eyes, its plume
of scarlet mesmerizes her: "It's such
a lovely blossom, I'll just bend it soft

and smell." But as she held the bloom aloft
it broke off from the stem. She panicked, cried
quickly in shock, and tore her tender skin
on rosecane thorns. And still she didn't dare
go back into the house. She'd never been
quite so afraid. But when she went inside
he simply dressed her wounds and calmed her pain.