Caroline, the rose dropped its head.
Petals still unopened already dead.
Too fragile flower. I dropped it in a bag
And wiped rings from the table with rags.
Had it been music it might have lasted
After the playing stopped, much like bubbled glass
Can hold delicate butterfly wings
Or preserve youthful blooms from spring
That were snipped too soon from vines
And never tasted the bitter aging wines.
Things die with time, a poisonous dart
That neither rhythm nor rhyme can stay.
All our days, Caroline, begin in darkness.
All our days end that way.
Originally published in A Matter of Mind, Foothills Publishing, 2004.
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