War of the roses

I carry gloves but forget to use them, armed with good intentions. I understand the blackberries battling to protect their fruit, but don’t the roses know that deadheading helps them bloom? They extend their claws over our walking path like a cat and stretch out in the sun, while the poor, meek blueberry, unarmed, must contort and lean for its share. The pruning session ends, as usual, with me running for a bandage.

rose scent embraces
my face and arms till, unwise,
punctured, I smell blood

Inspired by GoDogGoCafe Haibun Wednesday.



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