Morning Roses

The white ones glisten in a beaded sweat of sleep, exposed in beds of ruffled, scented petals as if this falling into sleep had been a struggling against the night’s inducement, requiring great effort. Now morning has arrived with its cool, gentle light to awaken these roses to yet another day or two. But they sleep too soundly, perhaps still indulging in amorous dreams of the night before. Who’s to know? I take my leave, whispering: Ladies, when on awakening, should you get word I called, I beg you, please, pardon my pure, though less than modest, peering eyes. Edited 7/2/2025