The roses grew
wild all summer.
I discovered them
spread across the meadow,
      a secret of deer and elk
      and wandering magpie—​
their color whispered
among milkweed
and cattails.
 
We learned the thorn first,
spiderwebs laughing
at the betrayal of beauty.
We sheathed our hearts
     from the mosquito
     giving blood for blood.
Sharing the sting
became a story we told
to red squirrels and fire ants
too busy to listen.
 
We watched for tracks and spoor:
signs our bobcat still lived. 
He was ours even though
we never saw him.  We found
     a wood mouse family
     and named them all Frog. 
I recall the beat of woodpeckers
echoing home as we said goodbye,
blackberry branches caught in our hair.
 
Summer became a petal
curled with promise.
Dewdrops clung to dusk
reflecting a stolen sky. 
     Here, at the end,
     I will smell the sun
     in the evening soil,
I will listen to the march  
of the field vole
and foxes’ feet;
 
I will taste the cold
on my wings as snow
spreads a shroud
across the meadow—​
     and I will see​
     one last time
the vine
​that drew love
from our fingertips.