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Chaste
October 13, 2019
The harsh winter
Has begun. Still,
The rose plant
Stands tall with
One or two roses
Crowning her top.
She almost seems vain
And as I reach out
To fondle one of
The Adornments, they
Disintegrate and disperse,
Drifting through the air,
Evading my grasp,
Delicately they descend
And caress the cold, hard ground.
They endure no other
Touch, than that of
Nature. For they are
Tribute to what lies
Beneath the ground.
To the one
Consecrated by the
Cold, sanctifying,
Touch of
Death.
I stoop to pick
A petal I fancy.
The petal withers
And shrivels
And ceases to be
A petal.
© Taylor S., Deltona, FL
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About a rose plant in my garden