My first job, right out of college
Was working in a rose greenhouse.
Actually there were three of them,
Each at least two or three hundred feet long
By 50 feet
If memory serves.
I worked there for one summer.
My job was to prune the bushes
And pick the roses.
The stems had to be a certain length.
The smell of the roses was sweet and heady.
The smell of the greenhouses was
A mixture of that perfume
And whatever they were spraying on them.
The glass was frosted
With a white-wash to dim the direct sun
So it felt like I was working
Under a partial eclipse.
Nobody ever told me to wear sunscreen
So I was like a pot
Firing in slow motion.
By the end of the summer
I looked like a California surfer.
There was a lanky old guy
In overalls,
The only full-time worker
Who had worked there for years.
(He said he had been working there
Since he was my age.)
His skin was unique
Like fine burnished leather
That had split into a million
Wrinkles and creases
But remained supple underneath.
Of the three greenhouses
I only worked in two
Where the pink and red roses grew.
The third greenhouse was off limits.
That was where the old man worked
When he wasn't checking in on me.
(Sometimes I would catch him watching me
Through a screen of roses.)
Early on, I discovered a tomato vine
That grew huge picture-perfect tomatoes
As red as cherries
And ready to drop off the vine.
I was planning on picking one for lunch.
As if reading my mind
The old man, who rarely spoke,
Said, "Don't eat the tomatoes.
They are poison."
It was then I realized that the roses were too.
And the thorns.
The first week or so I worked there,
Even though I was instructed to wear long sleeves
(Which was counterintuitive
Given the sweltering climate we worked in)
My fingers and forearms
Were pierced and lacerated.
After that I learned how to snake my hands
Into the roses without bloodshed
And I even began rolling up my sleeves
Which the old man tacitly noticed
But never mentioned.
The pink were the most popular roses
Even more than the red.
Red were big on Valentine's day.
I think it was the smell of the pink
As much as their color that made them so special.
It is that smell that greeted me each morning
That I never got tired off.
Even today I will go up to a pink rose
On a bush or in a store
And sniff its petals with my eyes closed
But most of the time
I am opening my eyes sadly
As I turn away.
At least the wild roses in parking lot islands
Never disappoint.
It is a smell that brings me full circle
And always makes me smile.
But I wonder
Do we really need to be reminded
That the look of a rose
Is only half of who they are?
(Article changed on Feb 20, 2026 at 6:10 PM EST)
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