My Grandfather’s Garden

The North Country yields
the most fragrant flowers—
Tropicana, Sterling, and Peace roses.

They’ve been nurtured for a decade,
season after season.

An attentive doctor/caregiver named Stanley,
who took up gardening at the age of 70,
planted 100+ bushes and
trained them to endure our cruel winters.

The 1991 Halloween Blizzard
would’ve destroyed the buds in my grandmother’s vase
if we hadn’t raked thousands of autumn leaves,
stuffed them into large sacks
and put them to rest atop the rose bushes.

When the leaves finally scattered
and the Spring rain dissipated,
we marched through the maze with our garden hoses,
watered the fertile soil
and waited for our freshly picked bouquets to bloom.

Puppy Love

for Merry

Merry, Merry, Sugar Plum Fairy,
You lean in to love with
Revolutionary ardor.

I’m watching your tail
Wag with intent
As you nuzzle your favorite toy—
A fluorescent ball of fluff I named Fraggle Rock.

Its googly eyes are looking at you,
Looking at me.

This is our spiritual home.

When I return from a trip to the grocery store—
The only acceptable excuse for truancy—
I set the bags on the kitchen floor.

You carefully inspect the goods
Before we feast.

My selections typically meet with your approval:
Baked salmon, sweet potato mash, broiled top sirloin steak with
All the fixins.

We sit before a buffet of nutrient-dense deliciousness,
A veritable cornucopia,
Every single day.

Because we are rich,
We sleep with full bellies
And dream of our next adventure.

Sara Cosgrove is an award-winning journalist and poet. Her poems have appeared or are scheduled to appear in The Seventh Quarry, Meniscus, Osiris, Poetry Ireland Review, Frogpond (Haiku Society of America), Autumn Moon Haiku Journal, Notre Dame Review, Gargoyle, San Antonio Review, ONE ART, In Parentheses, Panoply, Unbroken, and Roi Fainéant. She has worked as an editor for 15 years and has studied in the United States, Cuba, and France.