Breathing Sun
 
I love the way a rose dies.
The way it holds its glow
by folding it just so,
then laying it in the shade
so rose-like at its center.
Heart painters try in vain
to replicate.  I love to bouquet
red blooms that have slowed
to turn a  pink more delicate  
than baby.  Sigh with yellow
as it antiques itself ivory
or cream with the merest hint
of butter or melon. Meantime,
white suits up for winter
with tea-dyed collar and cuffs.
Color begins to talk in whispers,
then lets silence slip on stage.
Petals allow drought sick air
to sip, then gulp, dew they used
to hoard.  Need to move?  
Tiptoe, please.  Such trouble,
some say.  We fail to see
the beauty.  Good in not being
able to handle rough.  Strain
of pumping bellows to fan life
slips minds.    Words, water,
food, air.   Degree of shade.
Like walking on eggs.
Close your eyes and smell.
Nothing like a living, breathing
rose.  Nothing like the memory
glowing above glass silhouetted
by sun or candle, then pressed
into an album to be handed
down.  A petal just drifted down.
I pick it up and slip it in
among the others at the foot
like a feather, like a kiss.

(c) Phyllis Jean Green, 2007