Transition

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Soon the deer will leave the mountains.
Search our garden for vegetation.
Bite the tops off tea roses,

their teeth leaving scars.
In the yard the ash tree drops
leaves into the browning grass.

My husband rakes around each rose,
making brittle beds of insulation
against the winter cold.

Frost turns tender stems black.
Rootstalk retreats inside itself.
Late petals fall to the ground, bruising.

I don’t know which way to grow.

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