Roses

I can fix sad roses . . ., she says

And her smile confirms
Like rain on the earth
That indeed sad roses
Is familiar turf.

But it’s not so easy
This task in my mind
The world with its roses
Is definitely blind.

They’re scentless you see
And sad for a reason
These roses I give
No matter the season.

So it isn’t the wilt from
Stem to the hilt
Nor the mad range of
Colors that drives me so sad.

But the lack of a scent
And the image it recalls
That hammers at my heart and
Raises all my walls.

I can fix sad roses her smile supposes . . .

As she arrays them in a vase
Then turns and pauses
At the frown she can see
Is still on my face.

So she takes my hand and
Pulls me in a way
That suggests dancing
As we begin to sway.

And it’s then that my senses
Pick up the scent
Of timeless embraces
And memories well spent.

I can fix sad roses.
I can her voice murmur . . .

And her smile is my smile as we waltz down the aisle
And the laughter we hear
Is from children at play or a family gathered
‘Round the tree on Christmas day.

And the roses are real
Red, white, and yellow
And the music is moving
And her touch smooth and mellow.


And its night on our porch swing
In a light breeze
And the roses are shadows . . .
With a backdrop of trees.