Maybe I loved the way

her fiery pink work gloves clashed

with the polished wooden counter

where blue delphiniums lay, wrapped

in the splendor of last week's sports page.

Or maybe it was the fleeting mosaic

of crisp leaves and faded petals

I got to admire before she came in

to sweep the short-lived painting away.

Maybe I loved the fiesta of clay pots

adorning rains of purple perennials

and puddles of yellow chrysanthemums

in the baking heat of Arizona's finest summer.

 

But I know I loved the way

she hastily stripped the long stems

of the dark blooded roses, hacking

at the thorns that once protected them.

I loved the way she gripped five roses

in one hand as she sauntered over

to the guillotine of stem cutters,

snapping the roses in half, or the way

she pierced the bulb of each rose

with a short-stemmed garden wire,

pressuring the rose to stand firm.

And I really loved the way she peeled

back the frayed petals and the bruised petals,

scaling away at the crippled rose, leaving it

naked, scarred, and vulnerable.

 

But I loved most the way the severed rose

was soon laid down to rest, gently caressed

by a soft plethora of baby's breath and a crown

of leather fern, as all the customers stood in awe

at the renewed beauty of the broken rose

and how through the agony came adoration

because I loved that it gave me hope.