It hangs there still
in the cold December air
having bloomed late,
and now unable to set seed.
I had thought it
a thing of hope
when it first bloomed,
white, stubborn.
The dog does not follow me
downstairs at this hour,
her joints sore,
orientation off.
Alone in the gray night,
uncertain in the ordering
of things, and more things,
their pacing.
3 responses to “Another poem about a rose”
I adore this. Especially the title and the last stanza. I’m afraid I have to have a rose in my poem today, too. 🙂
Thank you. Roses work so hard for us, don’t they? Can’t wait to read it!!
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