Sunday, May 29, 2016

A Rose

It didn't last long.
First the leaves yellow and fold
like pages of a book
 caught in a rainstorm.
Then the petals age,
lose their perfect texture
and look more like skin,
familiar with the hard work
of being mortal. They resemble
a map folded so many times
the creases are part of the landscape.
But the red stays red
except for a touch of black
at the edges. That's it.
I threw it out
and washed the glass it was in.
Memory and memory's accomplice
where perfection is a photograph
remembered, but misplaced.

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