A rose bush was planted today
in brother Peter’s name,
hole dug, the best fancy top soil added,
toed in firm with warm memories,
stoically watered.
Memories flooded as I pulled
thorned branches from root bound pot.
Remembrances of farm life with brother Peter,
riding the pigs, screeching, squealing,
tearing around barnyard pens
clenching perky ears, laughing, shrieking,
till we fell from slippery pink arched backs
rolling with hilarity in the joys of brotherhood.
Later we shared girlie magazines, in narrow space
between garages with lustful neighbourhood buddies.
Often we would be on abandoned
afternoon bike rides – home at dusk
or hiking the afternoon away with Daniel Boone,
riding creek swells with Tom Sawyer.
Two buds are already formed
on this new memorial rose,
swelling scarlet edges of fragility
courage budding
one for Sylvia, one for Kristi.
They will slowly, ever so slowly unfold,
and bloom into glory as any rose should.
Tai Grove
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