Pictures of Roses
by Theodora Goss

My camera is filled
with pictures of roses
displaying their blossoms
in elegant poses,
each sporting a mass
of extravagant petals
like World War II veterans
proud of their medals
or debutantes lounging
in acres of tulle,
or the freshly-scrubbed faces
of children in school.
I love them so much
from their tops to their toeses,
from leaf, root, and branch
to each bud that discloses
a deep golden heart
like a miniature sun
or the prizes bestowed
when a race has been won.

I long for a garden
of actual roses
that smell like perfume
from the courtyards and closes
of far Ispahan
or another exotic
location. Alas,
my quest is quixotic
for I dwell in a city
where all that I have
is a tiny apartment
and a large Hasselblad.
So for the foreseeable
future I’ll settle
for pictures of roses
in exquisite fettle.
But someday, watch out!
A garden I’ll grow,
enormous, extravagant,
with endlessly elegant
roses and roses
in circles and rowses,
hanging from pergolas,
climbing up trellises,
rampaging over
Greek statues on terraces
as though concealing
French fairytale palaces —
and I’ll walk in their perfume
wherever I go.

(The image is The Artist’s Wife in the Garden at Skagen by Peder Severin Kroyer.)