I planted a rose at midnight on the full moon in a winter month.
It was a single stock.
I packed the dirt with my bare hands.
It had no thorns.
Yet your essence was then under my goose fleshed skin.
My breath warm within my lungs from a kiss.
It did not bloom.
Tucked, curled, withered within itself, it stayed.
I did not stray.
I checked it every day
For signs of life resumed.
Summer came and then it went.
I did not hear word, receive a letter sealed with a kiss.
The rose, among my wilting tulips could not be missed.
Still clamped shut, while the goldfinch pedals could not persist.
Still, I waited for that lonely rose to grow.
Still, I thought there must be something more for me to know.
But not until winter did the answer come.
Would I had known the rose could not have shown
Its scarlet to the hanging sun.
Instead it was saved,
The only in my garden left undone.
In winter I sat on the coldest night.
As clear a sky as any crystal made.
The rose had still not bloomed,
It had not faded in the waxing and waning of the moon.
Still, I wished to see your rose grow bright.
And just then the full moon rose above the trees.
It splash upon the ground, upon the rose,
And then did your rose finally open wide.
A silver dew spread across its pedals like
Liquid from your eyes.
Finally I knew I’d see you again.
Not for evermore, but once, before the end.
Could I have wish anything more or less?
On that night I kissed your rose
And whispered words attached to visible breath.
But remember those words I cannot do,
And weeks of waiting I’ve been through.
But on full moons your winter rose does bloom,
And so I know,
We’ll meet again soon.