The Winter Rose
The last rose formed on a delicate stem.
Coaxed by the promise of a gentle winter sun,
Her perfect bud unfolded. Each petal
She slowly and shyly unfurled, with none
Of the lusty robustness of earlier sisters.
With resolute intensity she opened her
Pretty garments until at last, she
Revealed a tender kernel to her seducer,
Who caressed her with his ardour one
More hour. Moment by moment, in warmth and light,
She flourished and swelled. But he grew cold and distant.
She was naked, and forsaken to the frigid night.
© Lynne Harris
