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.

Lovely, innit.

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.


5 responses to “COUPLETS

  1. Thanks to a gardener down the way/ couplets to lighten the load today.

  2. There’s a bard in the garden.

  3. A couple of Janes have thus inspired
    The clock and mirror to be retired

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