My roses, how they grow!
Ask me not, I do not know.

Crimson, fuschia, burgundy
Pale pink, old rose, almost white
My roses, though a glorious sight –
In winter, they cannot be but a blight.


Was it only yesterday?
When you declared, as your fingers
Gently snapped off each velvet petal
And cupped them in your hand for me
To savor their whimsical, fleeting fragrance:
The brave cannot fail because they’ve got 
     courage enough for a crowd to stand up
again and again and again.

Well, I never was and still am. Not. Brave.

To be you and me
In a universe that cannot see
Helios charging his chariot across the sky
Or the moonbeam’s kiss upon your eye.

To be with you and sail,
Pen the plot of a thousand tales.
But fate unkind uttered a decree:
There never more will be a We.

If you can, see me now:
Limping along life’s highway, being careful
Plucking hope from the barren, rotten soil,
Planting love and kindness to be faithful
In the midst of never-ending, grinding toil.

Ask me not to forget:
I will mourn, dance and sing
Till the crying clouds part and bring
A whiff of sweet sunset borne
On a gale from a meteor torn.

Ask me not to forget:
I will write, write and weep
Till your laughter thunders down from heaven and flings
Away these wet and buried, waxen tears
Wrought so long ago by death’s sting.


My roses, how they grow-
Ask me not, I do not know …


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