The rose bush
The fierce wind blows, yet the dew won't dry
On the petals of the lone rose blossom.
Sparse thorns stand raw, achy reminders
Of the wondrous lost dream of yesterday,
When the two golden birds sat on this branch
Staring into the infinite mirror of their eyes,
Rejoicing in the warmth of their evening song,
Delighting in each other's pure presence,
Basking in the divine light of Nature,
And looking up to the skies for inspiration,
Their breath barely a cloud in the cold winter's morning.
Alas, the birds flew away in opposite directions,
Leaving behind their ephemeral perch.
Now the last petals are dropping to the ground
And the branches have shed their final leaves.
What remains are skeletal and desolate
Twigs entwined purposelessly
Against the darkening grey sky
And a deafening silence weighing down on them.