The Rose

In the blue vase, hip high Is a rose Not a new rose, days have gone by Since first blossom, and timeless scent Fragile neck, a green cord, bent to the right As if falling to one side in a half swoon Oily briers, thorns dark and daring Cat’s claws, to draw blood, but not on skin To seep and drain, bruised, into veined segments Cheek-soft, aging with hints of brown Around deep blushing cups, scoured at the edge Frayed by the sun Into the red swirl, circles within circles Melting away to the heart, the final secret Exposed, peeled back, as a handkerchief Untucked from the breast pocket Falls to the ground The first in a line of lovely failings As time reveals itself in ailing petals And sighs, content, as nature is reclaimed