Reflections

Clutched against the snow a militant rose holds onto sleep, and dreams… And it’s perfect just like that but you still want to know the ambiguity of its unopened bud So you cover your eyes and count to ten then turn around But it’s quiet the way you like it with just the wind scattering its dust among the skinny branches
Still you want to know where it went, The secret of the tight-lipped rose And sit beside her in the dark of noiseless speculation, Waiting and watching for something to happen, catching every snowflake in the beam of your unwavering gaze As it falls and sizzles on her pink satin lids Trailing silver one by one Like the slow and steady breath of snails or the stream of notes left behind An evening sung
At some point the bud gets buried in the snow’s frozen ash Immortalizing the poise and delicate beauty of her sleep And it seems like she may live forever in the gentle palm of winter And for a time she does But when the snow melts revealing petals softly withered, tinge…