Snow and Roses

Between old friends across the years
and now across the miles,
two topics today on the phone.
She told me how
she drove in the snowstorm,
how she parked by the lake called Michigan
to hear the run of water under ice,
how she rolled down the windows
of her beloved jalopy
to look at the world and let
soft flakes blow on her face,

While from a climate far away,
I shared my unsuccessful quest
for roses with aroma,
my walking on village cobblestones
taking time to smell each rose
in three plant nurseries.
But the roses I carried home and bedded,
so lovely to the eye,
brought nothing to my nose.

My friend in the snow
told me about the roses
climbing the side of her house in the summer,
how the six-foot swath of blossoms
that returns each June on its own,
spreads its perfume far and wide.

As it often does, our conversation
has inspired me.
Tomorrow I’ll bring my pruner
to the wild rose I pass
each morning on the lakeside Malecon,
to the rose that smells like heaven
and blooms
pink and red on a single stem.
Humbly I’ll ask it
permission for a cutting.
I’ll bring it home and nurture it,
and in a month perhaps,
it will nest among the scentless lovelies.

While I dream of roses with aroma,
my northern friend
huddles under downy covers.
I’ll call my friend again in three months’ time
when snow is only in her memory.
Our topics then will be of then, not now.
But roses now will always bring to me
snowflakes making roses on her face.

©Susa Silvermarie 2023