The Caretaker

Two weeks in the ground,

and the family’s dried up

so he carries them home-

his bride’s dead shrubs.

 

“Oh, he loves me still,

still, he loves.”

 

She places the black blooms

in the front room, unforgotten

she admires the dry petals

crisp like starched cotton

 

He eats quiet, sleeps fast,

and leaves with no kiss,

to tend stones and bones

and she tends his.

 

“Oh, he loves me still,

still, he loves.”

 

Roses need not open red

with petals silk to skin.

Beauty is, in life, in death,

where it is seen akin.

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