Wounds That Never Heal

Wounds That Never Heal


Little rose pot on the terrace
hand painted white with a red stripe
hand-crafted out of clay.

Twenty roses stem from the vase
clipped only yesterday;
their petals soft, briers sharp.

Rests outside the kitchen window
bathes in the waning sun
as darkened clouds gather above.

Viridian shoots brace against the tired ridge
of an austere vessel, able but confused;
now sprouting with bright boughs of crimson life

Left empty, the pot is shapeless,
without a defining face or purpose
eyes only to judge its proper use.

Covered by a blanket of night and rainfall
wilting under the storm's caress,
the bulbs fetter and petals fall

Drowning- the just-fixed arrangement
clings to the promise of a sunny day,
dripping, saturated with tears of rain.

The flowers are forgotten and die
in the showers of the windy storm
thrown from the cradled ledge

The vase follows the roses in a dive
Shattering into ballets along the alley floor
only to cast out another serenity.
.