The rose garden is built up of paddy-like fields, levels of flower beds featuring various cultivars. Perched on the side of a forest hill, the garden overlooks the city. The wind hangs onto its cold bite, though winter’s mask begins to melt, revealing scuffs and wounds in the tender ground. A few Lenten roses are in bloom and there is a surprise mist. It smells of new rain and water beads lie upon handrails. The colors of the garden are mixed with grays. Thorns twist their way between chunks of wet bark dust near black in color and the cold grass is as green as spring. Here, not long ago, when warmth lingered, hands were held during walks, marriage vows exchanged, and secrets told. Now, there’s only the sound of a leaf blower and the faint tapping of a runner’s shoes upon cement. 
The city below pokes its skyline out of rain clouds. When the clouds lift, a mountain stands in the distance. You can see it above the city from the garden glowing, reflecting the sunset, a soft pink. Memories of music and voices are caught within its silence. I try to listen. 
The city between the mountain and the garden has its share of pain and privilege. I am found as you are, somewhere between both. There’s an amalgam of perceptions written into its streets trailing off (seemingly) with a dash stroke by a pen. No periods necessary. Images don’t need them. Thoughts are thorns and blooms. 
I see another winter rose.
The leaf blower moves further away singing in waves of crescendo/decrescendo. A distant drone, strangely comforting.

Recently published work

South Florida Poetry Journal – https://www.southfloridapoetryjournal.com/special-section-26.html

Juste Milieu Zine Issue 19 – https://heyzine.com/flip-book/a8b8d0008b.html