Spring poetry- Grandfather roses
Grandfather’s rose bushes
My grandfather loved his roses. He would care for them and ensure they survived the Winter. He was a story-teller and he loved his story of the roses.
He told me often. My Great grandmother was a cook in the castle of the king. She had a bastard son and she was send to New York city in 1880. She was pissed off and she cut off pieces of the King’s rose bushes.
She met a man in New York and they went to Detroit. She planted the Rose pieces in the Michigan soil and she loved them till she die. Been passed on to all the family. He would smile and he would tell me. We were born of kings and lived as paupers.
I cut a piece off his bush in the year 2000. The King roses had spread to front and back yard. I love my roses and when they bloom. I remember my Grandfather.
Now I am the Grandfather and I tell my children and grandchildren. See the roses, once roses of the King. They loved the story of being the bastard children of the king and they cut a piece off and replant in their yards.
I hope my children and my grandchildren remember me when the roses bloom.