Roses Again
Another poem
about roses. My love
is like a red, red rose?
And when the small rain down
shall come?
And what is there left to say?
Brenda picked them
left them on the table
with a note.
Don Juan's, climbers,
having worked their way
up the trellis to a rendezvous,
blossoms big
as cups, heart's- blood-red,
feverish for a change of seasons,
change of lovers.
I, too, have had enough of summer,
welcome a dormancy,
winter and wind.
You planted them.
Roses, roses, forever roses.
And yet I know
despite whatever springs may come,
I shall never love again.
One more for the roses,
one more, my love, for you.
Sue Scarf
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