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.