There Will Be Roses

All morning wrapped in the sound of rain like silk curtains, watching colors dissolve in clear water. Except the grass, so green it leaves red afterimages on my sight. We have no roses and the peonies have faded dull.

Late spring dressed in the silver-greys of autumn, fallen flowers thick as leaf-drift, rotting in the rain. Bedraggled crows shake water from their wings. There are no roses and the geraniums refuse to bloom: only a few leaves lift their cups to the drenching sky.

Now we emerge into summer as from the bottom of a lake. Now we face the scorch and drought and leaves that crisp on the stem. Only tell me there will be roses burning under the burning sky. Only tell me there will be roses thick as wine. Only tell me there will be roses.

Collection available! Knocking from Inside