There are roses and there are roses

I’m not talking about the hothouse, thornless, 
circus-colored cliches you get for birthdays 
or Valentine’s Day; or the prim, clean, white 
stems adorning tables at wakes—however welcome 

or beautiful they may be. I’m talking about the roses 
you see in someone’s old garden. The ones you come upon 
while walking somewhere else. They are wild 

and they have a past. They have shared the air 
with honeysuckle and bumblebees, rainstorms 
and trellises. They’ve made hearts bleed, as well as 

knuckles on those wicked, unapologetic thorns. 
The nights they know, the moon. 
Then all that sun. Their velvet petals—thrust out 
like starbursts— dare you to dip your whole face 
wholeheartedly in. And you do. You do.