A new bud sprouts in the footprint of crushed shoots
And flowers bruised from the last,
I'm here again.
Picking up petal pieces and parts of leaves,
Trying now to coax them back together -
Desperately, desperately -
An abominable travesty of a real rose.
Then the cold soft wind of your last sigh, sweeping doors behind you
Sends everything into a flurry
And left in my hands is some wilting, faded, crumbling thing,
Edges dead and curling, without bloom or colour,
Disintegrating in my fingers.
And even as a I clutch each fragment of silk,
It turns to thorn and blank nothing.
And suddenly I see myself,
Cradling broken roses -
Wishing they would grow again.