Uncovery

by Joan Osterman

How coy that blue door, portal to the cottage,

half-hidden behind the courtyard garden.

Cheeky red geraniums push to sunlight   

through waist-high weeds.

In front, lanky plants stretch.

Layers of sticky, hairy-stemmed invaders 

wrap around my legs like cats asking for a handout

A tangle of spindly, thorny stems in the corner

scratch, grasp at me. An ancient rosebush,

prostrate, peers up at me in prayer.

I loosen her grip, break free, find sticks

to stake her claim to live here—an act of faith—   

offer food and water, place a bench nearby

where I might sit and sing to her by sun and moon

Next summer, her branches broaden. She buds,

blooms, nourishes me with pink petals,

sweet fragrance. Bewitches bees and butterflies—

trickery to spread her pollen.

Their dances, her music, mingle

with mourning dove coos, tree root whispers,

sighs of the cottage, settling in the earth.

After a few seasons, the rose flourishes,

stands tall on her own,

and I flourish with her.

                                                          © 2023  Joan Osterman All rights reserved