White roses grew 
from mountain earth 
behind my Mamaw’s home. 
She sighed, they bloomed too few.
But still, I found them worth 
the plucking. I strayed to roam 

through grapevines, tall oaks, 
hillsides wrapped in briars, 
dirty hands full of forbidden flowers. 
Mamaw yelled to my folks, 
unable to dim my childlike desires. 
I sat with painted water for hours

waiting for chosen roses to color.
Purple—Mama’s favorite. 
I gifted her my happy mess, smile wide. 
Blind to how life fades duller.
Blind to how I should savor it.
Blind to how things collide.  

Mama kept dead flowers in a fresh mason jar,
dark and wilted, like her swollen hand.
A single waterlogged stem. 
Mama would say, “Look how sweet these are.”
She only knew love, could not understand 
even dead things will thirst if you let them.