Day 17 ...2

 Bread for all, and roses too...


The valley of the roses 

runs for fifty miles

along the river scar.

In summer, it is dry, 

only the ghosts 

of the mothers of roses.


We stand in the dust, looking 

at the hills -

here is where earth has torn,

showing the soft inside.

It's like a religion,

I wash it down with water


Summer rain

and the possibility

of next year's roses.

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