7 Days of Roses

Monday, noon, prune the roses

with naive delight.

Perch them in clear, fresh

honesty when cometh the night.

Tuesday morning, the buds

awake to the world,

as the trendrils of truth

are loosened and unfurled.

And all through Wednesday

and to Thursday eve,

desert the roses

as you weep and grieve.

And upon your return

on Friday, you pour

your sorrows away; the

petals on the floor.

The weekend looks bleak

as the flowers sit bare,

as if nothing lovely existed there.

 

The End

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