white roses

 

on a wet sunday are sad

haphazard

not neat closed buds

but falling open

falling apart

they have taken something

of the complexion of their leaves

petals like soft thin skin

petals like skin on the inside

of an arm

 

rose scent of rain

 

on a wet sunday roses turning

towards a window

slow twist of hope

before the day and its damp submission

to the legion of days

where cut flowers struggle

 

yesterday my mother gave me white roses