The Only Rose
After the wild roses stopped to bloom,
I visited your backyard each afternoon.
I counted the thorns of your rose tree,
wondering if a new bud I would see…
You didn’t come and lean by the window,
combing your hair under the afterglow.
The night wind carried you to me instead,
as I pillowed my head on the root’s thread.
You left the door open on the morrow,
when a new pink rose started to grow.
Should I leave the rose – young and pure -
or Should I follow your lead –
The future
gave to me no more than one queen
blossoming in a garden left unseen.
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