The Rose

For “No Spirit”

Thinking back on a rose
I gave you as novelty
to a love I’d known
only through flowers,
I wonder
had it withered
in my hand?
If not there,
when did the petals
fall like omens:
was Eden
more a nightmare then?
Was it the hearts
of others that bent
ours closer, or
some parting dream
that convinced us
of our mutual insecurity?

I know now that love
is not a flower.
Love is a shadow
in passing: a sparse moment
rarely noticed, barely kept.
It is not the past;
there is only love
for the past, for
what refuses to be changed.
Love is the moment changing
like the movement of the sun.
Had I known then,
I’d have dropped the flower,
and watched the orbit
of your heart instead.
Only then could I have danced
with shadows: seen roses
in your eyes.
But all is gone to memory now–
no room left to dream.

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