Roses by Annette Volfing

I: Meeting House Garden

Little mouths, yellow with scarlet veins,
so tight and fit.
They hiss like baby snakes
as I go in.

In here, we don’t refer to sin. Outside,
the branches whisper; forked tongues speak
to my condition.

II: Windrose

The compass spins, the sky is all
white light. Who cares which way
we blow?

Leviathan is far below.

III: The Recipe

The rose -- over time it has been named,
romanced and plucked. And now cut up,
the petals ground to make pink salt.

This rose, at least, will not get sick.
The crystals keep the worm at bay.

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