by Nick Gisburne
She grips her fists, a fortress on her chest,
Her knuckles white as ashes, fingers tight.
A single, simple treasure. All the rest
Were taken, leaving nothing but the night.
A flower. Precious, perfect, it was hers.
Her oldest rose, she never knew its name.
In time, when even sweet remembrance blurs,
The soul of it, the scent, will stay the same.
She cannot feel the torment of its thorns.
No pain could ever hurt her more than this.
She clings to what she crushes, as she mourns.
It somehow brings her closer to a kiss.
She smiles to see the garden as it grows,
And fills it with her mother’s oldest rose.
