A Wedding Song For the Gods

Her hands, heavily wrinkled, touch the thorns on the rose. The petals- color of the pinprick of the blood on her finger- drop to the table's cherry bark surface. The petals are flour-soft- her leathery grasp feels like sandpaper. She views the morning, the pines and maples, and birch, their branches cloaked in their shiny garb. The song sparrows congregate as the yellow -daisy tints of the sunrise softly touch the ruby-sienna bricks of the tenement, in which she quietly yearns- like the hush.. of falling snow- to bloom again.. in a Summer garden. .