Stories and Poems Written from the Garden

Elko, Nevada

I was think'n 'bout

Naming a rose

After the town I live in.

Then came to mind that the rose

Should have some of the characteristics

That resembles the town.

With that in mind, I thought it could

Have the musty smell of sagebrush after a spring shower.

Or maybe of the sweet fresh smelling air after

A summer lightning storm

It could be a dusty red color.

To match the dresses of the bawdy girls

Down on third street.

Or it could just have a golden hue like

The color of the gold taken from our mountains.

The nectar of the rose should be sweet and thick

Like the maple syrup at the Commercial Coffee Shop.

Or perhaps, like the honey long ago

Taken from Mr. Patton's hives.

And when the wind blows -

The leaves should rustle like the sound

Of a diesel pickup starting up at an intersection.

Or maybe the sound of a lonesome train whistle late in the night.

It shouldn't be some wimpy hybrid rose.

That'll just up and die after the first cold breeze.

But it needs to be a stout hardy bush rose.

Able to take on the rigors of our long cold winter.

And it should have deep strong roots

That not only go back as far as the early settlers

But go much deeper as when the Shoshone Indians

First called this land home.

Finally, the prickles, the thorns,

Should be as sharp and unforgiving

As a hang'n judge.

So, you won't tend to forget.

That the beauty can be admired -

But don't take lightly the determination of this plant -

And this town - to occupy its space - to live and thrive.