A Rose For Barb

Irene told me, back in June, to expect
Two bloomings, maybe three. “And don’t forget
To dead-head,” she added. Learning roses,
A new discipline for me, a project.
The second wave is waning now. A car
Pulls up—old friends from more than 30 years
Back, come for coffee. After our visit,
They leave in a rush of regret; a far
Drive awaits, and they have more stops to make.
“Hold on just a minute!” I shout, then dash
To find my clippers, dropped on the front porch.
I want to give Barb a pink rose to take
Home, and I sense that she understands why:
This race is me against the August sky.