white roses

white roses


on a wet sunday are sad


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










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