The Roses Preach

I wake up to stress on my chest, an unwanted blanket
It's the calendar, the way it's all jammed up
The weariness ahead and the funds
that grumble loudly about needing to be raised

But then
It's cold dew on my feet
The pale pink of fragrant roses
Leaning toward me
As I lift laundry to warm lines
In the early sun

And do they really matter?
These things I deem to weigh so much?

I turn my face
With the roses
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