Heedless
The gardener doesn’t come. The rose’s long
New shoots for next year’s blossoms whip about
In gale force winds and being young aren’t strong
Enough to bear the storm. The ruthless clout
Snaps them, one by one. They were supposed to
Be stapled to the sturdy bricks by him,
But, no, his mother died, so gustings blew
The future petaled beauties, whim by whim,
To their oblivion. The scarlet blooms
Of poppies also blown about on slack,
Limp stems have met their helpless, tattered dooms
And not because their hearts are purply black.
..No. Death and worse things beat upon us all.
….Those storms omit are lashed down by a squall.