by Dennis Copson

Created on: October 15, 2008

She Gifted Me Roses

On Sunday she gifted me roses,
one of red, one white.
Each was prime in flower -
not a blemish, not a blight.

By Monday I took no notice;
they were there, they were not.
It was a day for disregarding;
I remembered, I forgot.

On Tuesday again I saw them,
in the sunlight, in the dark.
They appeared but an illusion;
once a fire, then a spark.

By Friday those roses had wilted;
dying surely, living yet.
I stood by helpless,
wanting to remember, trying to forget.

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