I never did prune the roses.
I let them go feral and jagged.
I do not like the thorns.
I cannot shirk injury so they grow more unruly.
Undisciplined — the both of us.
There is a hole in my front porch.
I hear squirrels gnawing in my ceiling.
They are a banded army and I am outnumbered.
I assume, by the sound.
Seeking shelter — the troop of us.
There is a kiln in my garage.
I have never fired it.
Never even thrown clay.
I have many “one day” items collecting dust.
Waiting — the hoard of us.
The hammock is frozen stiff.
It is like a petrified corpse, catching the temper of the north wind.
I do not take it down, in case of lovely days.
Enduring it — the two of us.
There is a cold front here.
It shook the house with the overgrown roses, the hole in the porch, the dust in the garage, and the rock-hard hammock.
Blew the front door open at dark and sat me upright.
Shaking walls — the both of us.