Roses in December

December fifth, and though the trees are bare
there's still a rosebush with a late-blown bloom.
A trace of summer lingers here and there

a dab of red, a waft of scented air
a touch of August captured in perfume.
December fifth, and though the trees are bare

and dead leaves rustle down the concrete stair
a scarlet blossom braves the winter gloom.
A trace of summer lingers here and there

on bushes as disheveled as the hair
of sleepers roused from winter-darkened rooms.
December fifth, and though the trees are bare

defiant roses challenge the despair
of dead grass shaking out a seedless plume.
A trace of summer lingers here and there

although this morning, frost was everywhere
and on the calendar, these numbers loom:
December fifth. But though the trees are bare
a trace of summer lingers here and there.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside