The poet deadheads the roses
in the warmth of the morning sun,
bidden by the thirst of flowers
and his own heart
a threatened clutch of thorns.
Between the scented petals and stonewall he stole
a glimpse and saw her, dressed in negligee
sheer on skin that sipped the moon
and eyes of violet requited.
So one look sustained him
until those last days, bed bound and fading.
Gifted the sight of all fae he found her
floating through the flowers. Farewell befell them,
an eastern breeze that swept him
across all England.
There but for the roses where petals swell and fall,
bloom still each season
for every tear you gave him
and for those left unspent
until the end of all days
brings him home, your poet.