by Irene Conway

I pause in my garden
All smothered in June
Plucking strings of the spirit
To bring it in tune.

With the oriole music coming
Forth with such glee
From the pink and white blossoms
Of the old apple tree.

A few steps to the south
Brings me close to the path
Where the rare old Moss roses
Bleed from their hearts.

These lovely old bushes
Yet blossomed in June
When Victorian children
Gathered their blooms.

And horses and carriages
Clopped down the street
Bearing poets and statesmen
To Melrose retreats.

June 6, 2003

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