Too Late

          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:
Beacons Unreachable
One Crossing
Grievous Loss

 

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