Roses are read








Roses are read,

where color is words.

Violets are blew,

and sing with the birds.

Her tendrils in time

stretch out to renew,

for Spring isn’t blind,

her labors ensue.

When yellow as time

and auburn as rest,

there comes but a moment

only love knows best.

So turn from the Westland

where winter-deep lives

and point your eyes East

to gifts Summer gives.

Here, in the triage

of heaven’s remains

we see what is needed

to seed late Autumn grain.

Return’d now to Fall,

with not yet wearied skies,

and before sleep succumbs,

she bids all goodbye.





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