All the Roses Died All the roses died. Their beds untidy and unmade— covered with faded things. If we’d been young we’d’ve upgraded roses you’d never gift to anyone. Overgrown beds can’t be mown. How could we have known? It’s sad! We should’ve tried. The heat’s early. It’s revealed in leaves’ need for sun’s shimmering hot moistness. Hot frogs fill the river’s run, croaking rich velvety coarseness. Roses mildew in rain. Fruit trees bend and split with strain. We don’t shed a tear this year We’ve retired. Marilyn Peck At Mooloolaba by the Sea Remembering early morning walkers— Some couples…