Too Late

               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
Beauty in the Close
Missing Her
Grievous Loss