I want to write about the fall’s last rose bud

now blooming among hips

red and glistening with rain.

I long to tell you how the blossom’s

unexpected beauty transformed my day

how its scent reminded me of Grandma Gracie

with her hard tales of Montana told

over cups of weak coffee.

She’s long dead like Shakespeare.

Without him or his gang of literary geniuses

I could get away with it

but they would name me claim jumper

or hack

just for writing about a late blooming rose.