fairy and old blush and souvenir heavy and pouty with rain,
secure in the many blessings of being born roses...
this late spring day hangs low,
and drips,
and seeps into the soul,
a muddy balm for winter's rawness
and a momentary protection
against the summer heat to come
when even the the limestone will lose it's cool
and the garden abandons all restraint when the sprinkler turns on