In a tsunami
That snaps a neck of my Worry-free(R) Rose
And lands two blossoms in a lake of mulch.
Drops of water collect on the petals
As if the stagnant birdbath water
Were drops of dew.
It is a beautiful death,
But it is not over.
Other blossoms from another neck
Crane and strain to reach the sun beyond the Rose of Sharon--
A greedy, weedy thing with vague pretensions of a religious past
That sucks up all the air and light around it--
It’s what happens when a Maker outsources story,
And the story becomes a brand--
But I was speaking of the Hydra,
Or, should I say, my Worry-free(R) Rose
In whose world water stands in for swords and fire,
This small garden, for Lake Lerna,
And me, for Hercules--
Oh, and these broken roses now perched in a vase, for myth.