Morning sun came leaking through her blinds
casting its nosy presence on those stiffened petals
held upright by murky glass.
She turned this way and that in restless dreams
No doubt dreaming of her rose
plucked from a wreath in hidden grief
that rested atop a fresh mound of earth
muddied by storms and tears.
There's fresh tap in her rose's vase
although stem brittle and petals stiff as brown leaves fallen..
Even the thorns have lost their sting - break instead of pierce.
She wakes to press her rose in heavy pages
to be placed upon a shelf.
Who knows if spine be broke again to read the words
within if such dried, once lived life holds her place?
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