Flowers May Pass
A poem
A poem
I held this flower in my hand
in the harshness of winter-sleet,
and am grateful now
for that bitter, dappled day.
Memories that drink from a sleepless night,
are those wistful moments
that I now don’t recall.
No white crosses will mark their passing.
A ruined rose endures when all else fails.
A fractured stem, a melting heart,
the difference is small.
I look upon this shattered bloom
and see a thousand arrows,
and wonder,
is this all?