You smell that?

I smell sweet, middle-class roses
blooming on a chilly October morning
right outside my own plantation shutters.

Pink cream, silky softness, with ruby-red scalloped edges,
I remember why I planted them now.
Because they are rich and authentic and beautiful
and not a belabored, unnatural thing.

I sit back every year and watch them bud and blossom
more beautiful than before, year after year;
the roots reach deeper strengths below them,
and the blooms grow sweeter and more divine.
I structure them with prunings, strip away
their spotty leaves to encourage new growth,
and give them all they need without shading them
too much or too long.
And then my favorite part,
I step away and let them work.
Because they know what to do
best for all the rosebuds on the bush.

By the time I turn around and notice again,
they take my breath away with all they have become,
so cleanly fully-nourished and fully-bloomed.
Delicately rimming the scalloped edges,
the watery beads collected over the night
reflect rainbows and refract prisms,
into the purest liquid jewels.
Each rose sits atop a stem, gently swaying
under its own shimmering crown.

With a hot cup of tea, touch of cream and honey,
a strong hug and two kisses from a good man and husband,
I can see every leaf on the cherry tree now.
Finally, again.
Backgrounded by a
velvety bright blue canvas and
over-inflated, cartoonishly grand clouds
that always make me smile from
the inside out.

For once in a long time on a Monday,
my smile is not forced, and my sigh is content,
and I will not miss the throat-clutching fumes of
purple Kool-aid on a Monday morning.

I will worry about the people
being handed the Dixie Cups, however.

When people tell you to believe in
someone you know is wrong,
remember that nothing feels better
than being yourself,
on your own,
growing a real work of art
at home where the real flowers bloom.

And no, I didn't PhotoShop in the sparkle.
God did.