Roses I knew love once And its gone Go The breeze beckons Your whispers Go gone My bed you once warmed it Once you warmed it You’ve left it cold Cold Place your hand here It is cold You’ve gone to a land I cannot reach But it’s a siren tempting On the rocks that I know One day I must steer my boat into The rose have not grown The dirt is fertile The rose have not grown The hand that once fed them Is cold Cold. Beatrice N.
Roses.
a poem from early spring last year.
