Clifford Paul Fetters

 

 

 

END OF SUMMER ROSES

 

A bloom big as a bear paw,
the scent a mighty fragility.
Three petals fall,

red wings too tired
to fly.  They touch the earth
without sound, a quiet dying

still flush with resurrection
aroma.  What is this that strews
our senses, from what great garden?

Copyright 2004 Clifford Paul Fetters.  All Rights Reserved.

Back Home Next