Member Rara Avis
Dead rose presses her head to the pane,
resting surely, sparsely in light.
Her petals are dried, clutching the air.
Wrapped against her bulb as though food.
Soon there will be but brambles and thorns,
as winter wraps the evening in light.
Soon, there will be but frost.
A memory of one dead rose
fractured and wilted to a wisp.
The trellis will need taking down.
The white boards will need storing away,
until summer again decides to show sun.
How many boards in how many rooms?
The air smells of dust and perfume.
In the stalled heat below the roof
the air reeks of wilt and decay.
Dead rose sways her song in the breeze,
gray and brown, her true color dissipated.
In a few weeks, the pane will be bare.
Her sight will lay silent beneath dormant drifts.
In the spring, perhaps, I will repaint the boards,
nail them all out in intriguing new shapes.
A sculpture to reach for the sky.
In the spring perhaps, when memory serves.