The past 2 days I’ve worked in gardens for women named Jane who have a thing for roses. Life serves up these inconsequent coincidences like throwaway couplets.
I’m a cushion for the thorns of roses/ I’ll probably die of sporotrichosis.
Jane One and her husband are selling their place and moving to Sonoma. So I was there to do a presale cleanup of the weeds, the weeds, the weeds. A truckload of them was extracted from the thicket of canes.
For the wan display and what it’s costin’,/ I’m over my crush on David Austin.
Jane Two had a massive pink Peace rose climbing to the second story of the house, duking it out with a passion vine.
The vine has covered it like a glove/ Call it passion; it sure ain’t love.
The rose is sacrificed without a tear./ It only bloomed big once a year.
Jane One asks about my love life. Nada.
“Sixty is six hundred in gay years./Tell me otherwise and I’m all ears.”
She tells me instead about her ninety-year old friend who fell for a guy in his eighties. Asked what made her marry at that age, the nonagenarian said, “He’s smart and kind and fun./ It’s all about the one on one.”
If “The sixties are the years to flame,”/ as said Marcia of gardening fame,
the nineties must be the years to rock/ stash the mirror, bury the clock.