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
Copyright © Jeremy Martin | Year Posted 2021
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