How quickly turns that silken purse -
as though sow’s ear is taking space,
hears jealousy, lost in revenge -
but dew has dried, curl edges bruised,
and secateurs deadhead at speed,
already eager for rebirth.
From best of blooms that nodding spreads,
as if in shame, taut stretch neck drapes,
so dozing head flops, ruby weak,
cut gemstone seen as paste instead.
Last pheromones drain scent away,
flight summer buzz ignores its red,
as all that feasted, lustre days,
desert the call of luscious bed.
While petal flesh clings to old veins,
before the drop that feeds ahead -
that ground where dust to dust will bear
creation’s cycle, nature’s bled,
the sacrifice, bone fingers, nails,
sharp thorn surround for bowing head -
see crown of glory, powerless.
But passing, hand on, rests awhile,
caresses dreams, wealth known before,
and all is well as love remains.
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