Ode to an Imagined Rose

What happens now
When, after reading for hours
The winter rain falling
I see again in you
Not beauty but sacrifice?

Lorca says,
“Intelligence, give me
The exact name”
The flower in mind
Dies also

I remember bitter thing
What you were like
Moments ago
Plucked from some garden
Between light and shade

Author: skuusisto

Poet, Essayist, Blogger, Journalist, Memoirist, Disability Rights Advocate, Public Speaker, Professor, Syracuse University View all posts by skuusisto