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Sun Rose
Three years ago was only yesterday:
at dawn I opened my eyes and the blinds.
Bouquets you'd left before you passed away;
those on my window daily I would find.
From your consideration my sun rose,
my very own, through those petals it shone.
It's hard to grasp in poetry or prose
how all you'd picked has taken root and grown.
Yours is no grave, yet all the gloom is mine
without your daily sunset-imbued gifts.
How am I to place roses on your shrine
if roses after you have gone adrift?
Only remains the warmth that's in those dyes
of moments so surreal they don't die...
R.I.P
Copyright ©
Zainab Wasel Ali
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