December rose

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, tinged with gray,

Fallen open like a hand catching raindrops on a cloudy day,

Sleep has been released in the parting of her eyes

And awoken a galaxy of stars in the month of an undisclosed night.