Seduced by scent, voluptuous bloom,
I succumbed to cultivating a rose garden 
unaware the nurturing required was
not unlike care and feeding of children.

Yes, there’s the joy of Just Joey—
frilled petals in a blend of copper and apricot; 
the velvet brown of Hot Cocoa; the clean 
green leaves and white clusters of Iceberg.

But then there’s Double Delight—
outer ivory petals stained crimson as the sun strikes, 
heraldic symbol of the War of the Roses to be won 
again in the fight against black spot, rust, mildew.
.
Pellets of systemic fungicide, vaccinations, 
injections, sprays of herbicide,
Rose Defense, Miracle-Gro, mulch.
Deleafing the contagious before they drop, 
deadheading.

By summer’s end, despite the Bard,
Othello stands upright, strong, thorny,
the darkest of red roses. Ophelia has survived
her watery grave, alights lovely as ever,
blush white, exquisitely formed and fragrant. 
Perhaps she is the harlot Hamlet thought she 
was having produced more than thirty offspring, 
sporting them in her innocent virginal manner.