About The Roses

Tomorrow or the next day I may confess
In long and sensual letters of our lost passion,
Letters filled with sighs as soft as rose petals,
Petals rusty red as children's blood
Spilled across their white Sunday best,

Or I may caress you from a distance
With solemn words of no special meaning;
Meaning, of course, that in my joy I found you
And in your deep blue eyes I found

The ransom for a bright new
April morning; and in the morning
Found the silver, wet, and green
That were an answer to the roses.

Tomorrow or the next day I may
Write long and angry letters of
No-decision, pleading and demanding
That we can love forever or else we cannot love.

I will caress you from my wheelchair with my
Fury fresh and full, but empty of meaning;
Meaning, of course, that in my joy I found you
And through your flesh and hope and tears I found

The flush of April spreading that had been deeply hidden
In every crevice and in every wintry evening
And in the Evening found
The silver, wet, and green
That were an answer to the roses—

Those roses rusty red, red like blood
Smeared on the faces of children
Who now protest they were never very hungry,
Who, wounded in their passion for such games,
Have now turned morbid and ceased to play.

rcs.
5th draft: 02/01/06
©1980 Ronald C. Southern

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