The trellis
stands by
A wandering
rose whose blind and tender shoots
Poke the
air, testing
Fingers
curled around a tendril twirling itself around the fringes
Of the bent green wood
The triple cord,
earnest in its unmoving state between Sun and rose,
Awaits,
hurting…
“Come sweet Rose!” it pines,
“Lift up
your head and let Him pull you to your feet!
The ground
you cling to, even as it calls you to sleep,
Is a deathbed!”
It sweats until
its sapless brow, bead by bead,
Moves the
rose to weep
And stretch
across the gap between where life begins and ends,
Hanging on.
*for my Rose
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