When a rose I planted
for a dead friend
refused to grow,
what choice was there
but to pull it out and
begin again?

When a second rose
also failed to thrive
and in fact died,
what choice was there 
but to pull it out and
begin again?

Now a third rose
will not take.  
Friend,
what are you trying
to tell me?

Perhaps
there’s nothing
after this life
and such memorials
are pointless.

Perhaps
in this life
you didn’t love roses
and I didn’t know you
as well as I should have.

Perhaps
I am a bad gardener
and kill what I put effort into
because enthusiasm is no 
substitute for skill.

Friend, I have a dying rosebush
with your name on it;
what am I supposed to do with it?

Friend, why don’t you speak to me?
You went back into this earth,
did you not?  Why will nothing grow now?

Tireless watching at the window
if there’s something out there,
not at all if there’s not.  
Working when there’s work, 
not at all when there’s not.  

There’s always something to see
and always work to be done,
cry some.  If you’re bored, you are
boring, they cry.  And when I respond
eh, not so much, here’s yet another case

of blaming the victim, you
and the notorious Puritan
Work Ethic looking for a soft place
to set the hooks
screech like a box of peeved owls.  

Owls only look wise. You know
that’s all in our heads. We see
the forward set eyes, think they’re human
as if that guaranteed wisdom — those
blamers, always yelling “Who?” Just like you.

So, tireless watching at the window
if there’s something out there,
working when there’s work and not at all
when there’s not.  Boring happens.  Someone
can bore me, can be behind or ahead of my page.

I’ll get over it, or leave of my own accord,
but maybe my best move is to get bored, to stay there
for some message about patience or humility.
Shut up about everyone needing to “do something.”
I prepare some of my best work when I’m doing nothing.