Within the unkempt mat
of last years dead rosehips
brown stranded, thread hanged,
is a sultry rose
pink to its core, each petal an arc of joy,
vivid in the sadness of your time,
--
the rosewood outlives,
thorny, twisted, an old woman’s hand,
cupped to the ear,
waiting to hear the old song,
--
a smile plays on your rose bud mouth,
you hold your breath, watching through the shutters,
waiting for his arrival, his midnight serenade,
….you loved this time of year.
©Mel Melis June 2012
(from mum’s garden)
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