The Only Rose

After the wild roses stopped to bloom, I visited your backyard each afternoon. I counted the thorns of your rose tree, wondering if a new bud I would see… You didn’t come and lean by the window, combing your hair under the afterglow. The night wind carried you to me instead, as I pillowed my head on the root’s thread. You left the door open on the morrow, when a new pink rose started to grow. Should I leave the rose – young and pure - or Should I follow your lead – The future gave to me no more than one queen blossoming in a garden left unseen.