June

The roses are opening. Within minutes
there will be a deafening cacophony of roses
on every block. The dust from the road
is no match for the rose noise. And
I could weep for the absence of snow.
So tragic and profoundly sad.
The simple sadness of this undoes me utterly.
Two women knit and talk in the corner,
unconcerned with the rose canes that
threaten to tangle their wool.
After hours of counting stitches and chuckling
over their private yarns, they pull on mittens
and scarves and peer out at the cloudless sky,
then bend their heads against the cold
and depart the shop, leaving a hailstorm
of rose petals hollering all the way to the ground.