A Rose Descent

29 Jun

How now does this rose not wither,
whilst I cradle its petals in my hand;
but how it does tremble with wan,
as if its beauty would swoon of me.

How wild as the wind it does play,
its petals as wisps of silken sheets;
o’er the palm of my hand, it bleeds,
as in its stay, it knows but to caress.

How free to the sky its scent is away,
the odorous calling of its heart is sung;
as with my sighing breath o’er its flesh,
would it give me this kiss to rely upon.

How now it pales to the sun in my hand,
‘ere the pallor of its gaze dies too soon;
see it now weep for its coming demise,
and in final tremor, slips from my grasp.

How then upon the earth it does plunder,
to fall in pieces, as shed Autumn leaves;
dropping to my knees now, I covet its fall,
then softly die, in harmony with the rose.

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Posted by on June 29, 2017 in My Poetry



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