This morning,
the frost heavy on the ground,
I walked into the garden.
Greeting me,
wounded, yet alive,
stood the rose bush.
Trimmed back for the winter,
only two slender branches remained.
Yesterday’s buds
had bowed their heads.
Pinker than ever,
their wilted bodies
hung tenaciously to the stem.
“Goodbye,” I began.
“No!” came the admonishment.
“We have not left yet,
cherish what remains.”
Dedicated to John Hartwell with gratitude for the moment we shared at the end of his life.
