A poem
I held this flower
within 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 now I 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?