In July, Weeds Take Over the Garden
by Adrie Rose
I am no expert at saving things.
Sweaters eaten
by moths, teeth
lost, artwork haphazardly
recycled or kept.
Who chooses
what survives, and why?
July brings back
roses everywhere
as if we were celebrating.
The baby would be four now.
When I dropped
the jar of dried calendula,
glass shards leapt
into every corner of the room.
What was left
was the river
of all the leavings,
and the raft
I have built
to float
upon it.
Sweaters eaten
by moths, teeth
lost, artwork haphazardly
recycled or kept.
Who chooses
what survives, and why?
July brings back
roses everywhere
as if we were celebrating.
The baby would be four now.
When I dropped
the jar of dried calendula,
glass shards leapt
into every corner of the room.
What was left
was the river
of all the leavings,
and the raft
I have built
to float
upon it.
Adrie Rose plays with words and plants in unceded Nonotuck territory. Her work has previously appeared in Witness, Rise Up Review, The Rail, Poetry Breakfast, and more. She won the Elizabeth Babcock Poetry Prize, the Ethel Olin Corbin Prize, and the Gertrude Posner Spencer Prize in 2021. She has work forthcoming in Underblong, Nimrod, and Moist. Find her on Twitter @AdrieLovesPie.