Delicate
               furled soft pink
                    the petals of a late summer rose
 
          The air should be langorous
               abuzz with bees
                    demanding the wafting of a fan for comfort
 
          Matte green
               traced by veins with a hint of red
                    the rose leaves are all they should be
 
          But the air chills my face
               crisp, autumnal
                    and the rose petals are brittle, frozen
 
          The month is November
               not the August
                    to which I cling
 

In memory of my mother:
One Crossing
Beacons Unreachable
Upwelling
Beauty in the Close
Missing Her
Grievous Loss