I don’t know what your roses need but I pretend I do anyway.
I hold each bud between finger and thumb and wash off greenflies. One by one.
I pull off dying leaves with black spots and give up on windy days.
(I always stop my friends to smell the roses.)
I stroke the dust off your crocosmia and hope it can breathe.
I splash water on your overflowing fuschia. Did you always love them because they have always been here.
I never remember the name, but I haven’t seen flowers from your rhododendron. Can you tell me, did I do something wrong.
I wonder when your pears will ever ripen. (I google when do pears ever ripen.)
I harvest your blueberry shrubs and remember when they were small. Do you still think of me being small.
I rub tomato leaves between my fingers and smell my childhood with you. Small.
I count desperately the last few ways I can still care for you, touch you and talk to you.
I stand for a while in your garden, often.