Relief
The roses come. He does not think of you.
Their pinks are far too delicate, their reds
Too overwhelming, and their whites too true.
He does not think of you and cuts their heads.
The peonies arrived. Their petals are
Too perfect, fine, and lovely for his heart
To turn to you. To think of you would jar.
Their petals and your cold loom far apart.
The autumn comes in vibrant dying red,
And orange, and yellow. They cannot recall
To life the blackness of your curly head.
You turned all brilliance to an unseen scrawl.
..You, love, are living in a death for him.
….He now grows death as love’s best synonym.
~ Phillip Whidden