It was the last rose to bloom before the frost.
I gave it a perfect vase for its singularity
before it dried up in its graceful way
that particular vibrancy curled up
as though seeking its resting place.
I was about to recycle it when I looked again
and then I snipped the stem close left
a lace-like green attached to its base
its birthing place and placed
the rose before me on white paper
its sweet scent gone
some petals pale in pink others
nearly magenta that part of the flower
not fully opened as though it squeezed out
its yearning for life
and it called to me that way so I set out
to capture its grace with pen and ink
its newness to capture something wordless
in the composure it held a dialogue of sorts
beyond its perfection and the sun was shining
fiercely as it does in New England winters
I just didn’t want to let it go now it shall join
others in my collection of skeletons
waiting for their own memorial
in all those complexities
to savor what I can
how it is sometimes with endings.
