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
just for writing about a late blooming rose.