Creatures of the Field

A scent of wild roses, yet I see
no roses, nor rosebushes, nor hips
hanging red. A small garter snake
at first just a glimpse of movement
in the grass, then its striped length
corkscrews away from my foot.

The greens, the greens. And tomato
and sunflower with their primary
jolts, small pastel daisies. The wind
ruffling the willow. Revelations
poke through my memories, a slim
shape sidewinding through stems.

Have I ever held my own shed skin,
wondered at the length of it, how it
curls and coils in drying, becomes a
pale rustling husk I might preserve
in a linen press? Fine woolen ghosts
carry a waft of roses in their folds.

Can I make tea or jelly from the rosehips,
bottle that phantom waft of fragrance?
Denial is a folding, hospital-cornered
so small traumas will lie flat, slide
into drawers, tuck neatly into cupboards
so all the hangers face in one direction.

Photo by Heather Barnes on Unsplash.