a poem for kevyn

Susan Steger Welsh is an accomplished poet, an extraordinary woman and an old friend. In fact, I live in Minnesota today because of her. She was the executive producer at channel 5 who plucked my audition tape out of a pile. She saw something in my reporting work that led her to offer me a job way back in 1983. (We were both wearing blouses with big bows during that interview, as I recall.)
Susan has had her own stare-downs with Reaper, G., and has triumphed over her own tough breaks. She comes through with a richer shine in her eye and a guttsiness that inspires. She has been a source of strength, guidance and hope.
My situation apparently served as muse to move her to write this poem.
Which touched me deeply.





Don’t Send Extravagant Floral Arrangements,
She Said. They Always Remind Me Of Funerals,
And I Don’t Want To Go There Now.

I go

into the garden, find the rose bush that just last week
was flawless, with innocent, not-quite-June
perfection. The tiniest wink of rosebuds.

But now I find lower leaves mottled
with splotches, plump green
gnawed back to paper.

I yank off the leaf stems one
by one, underneath find the pale worms –
thin as luck. I fold the leaves,

squash them with my bare hands.
I try to avoid spraying roses,
but when this rain is past

I’ll pull on gloves and a mask,
spray until every leaf

drips with chemicals.

for Kevyn