POEM · CONTACT AND RELEASE
September sixth. One rose is open enough that its outer petals have begun to turn outward, their red thinning where the edges dry. Beside it, a bud is still held by its sepals, green points clasped around what has not opened. They grow from the same cane. Below them, pale prickles rise from the green skin, each curved slightly toward the stem. A bee enters the open rose. For several seconds only its abdomen shows between the petals. The blossom lowers under that small weight, then lifts when the bee leaves. I reach to turn it toward me. My cuff catches. The hook has taken one thread of cloth and folded it against itself. I pull back. The whole cane follows. The open rose trembles. The bud moves with it. I pull once more and the hook goes deeper into the weave. So I step toward the branch. The cloth slackens. The prickle releases it. For a moment the cane and my arm rise together. Then I let go. The branch returns through the leaves. The open rose keeps moving after the bud is still. On the prickle one pale thread remains, too small to see until the wind lifts it.