Arose
she
at
magenta
sunrise,
just after
twinkling bouquets
faded.
The summer damask rose
shimmered
in an
old cut glass
vase
beside her bed.
He always
left one
waiting there.
She thought of
that other day,
fifty-two summers ago,
when her
now-snow-headed
sweetheart
knelt on one knee,
and asked
what he already
knew the answer to:
Will you?
I will.
Every morning,
The yes of
Whimsy and joy,
wafting among quotidian
moments,
Lovers lasting
Aroma.
Outside the
bay window,
roseate puffs
proposed,
flushing the face
of craggy young Rockies.
Alpenglow blush:
Two beauties
dancing to dawn’s delight,
on the ice-fringed
alpine lake,
alongside
two
old
mountain roses.
Lane M. Arnold

 

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