White Rose Ridge

White roses around a tumbledown house
three rooms, one board between
comfort and weather
no one knew about insulation
when the need for shelter
urged its building

I wanted to find the inspiration
for the poetic name of a lonesome ridge
where no one lived anymore
the road was disappearing
in ruts and weeds and fallen branches
maps don't mark addresses of memory

Go out to where the road forks.
There used to be an apple tree
and at the head of the holler
was the house. Might not be there now.
White it was, and a fence around the yard.
Them roses grew right up to the roof.

I walked the red clay ruts stepping
careful because no phone
and no people were near
a copperhead blocked my path
I detoured into woods, picking wild strawberries
to quench the taste of fear

broken branches and gnarly limbs
marked the apple tree
I turned trusting the sunken path
ahead was the road that led
to the house with wild wild roses
growing over the roof

it was June when roses bloom
at the head of a hidden hollow
I found them--stretching
long arms of creamy blossoms
to cradle the ruins of the past
in prickling thorns and fragrant scent