By Barbara Daniels
My husband says truth is not a flower
I could lift to my face or cut for the house.
What’s real is a fading tea rose.
He studied philosophy at a fine university,
learned who thinks matter is Silly Putty,
stretching, bouncing, who sees fidelity
as dew-pearled rosebuds. In the yard,
scabs blight new leaves days after
they form on the river birch.
Roses rot though they bloomed abundantly
just last year. Toadstools rise, white fists.
On the grass, the shadows of bees.
Barbara Daniels’ book Rose Fever: Poems was published by WordTech Press and her chapbooks Black Sails, Quinn & Marie, and Moon Kitchen by Casa de Cinco Hermanas Press.