It’s rock rose season in our little town:
they grow wild here,
and their scrubby-looking bushes
spread happily along the edges
of our beaches, pathways, streets, and farmlands.
Over the winter it just looks like tangled brush,
Like blackberries; messy and encroaching;
Something one might wish to remove.
And then suddenly, in June,
The small pink flowers are everywhere,
Singing their song of the summer to come —
Like so much of life: tangled, messy,
And then sweet moments of joy…
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