Wintry Bouquet
This December during wide nights hemmed by blackness, I remember roses. Pink yellow red violet those satin blooms of June. We must wait six months before seeing blossoms, touch their brightness crush their scent with fingertips. Now there are only ebony pools of winter’s heavy ink of darkness. Dipping into memory of my lips touching petals tantalizing sweet buds. My body longs for softness. I glimpse brilliant faces of flowers right before me as I burrow beneath frosty blankets. Bracing against that long, cold nocturnal of wind and shadow.