Roses, she wants two dozen roses
on the day she most likely will die.
Meeting her husband scares her witless;
he left us wearing the same dark mask.
A puzzle works itself on the breakfast table;
she leaves the puzzle of why she wants roses
for us to work in the dying space.
The clues cower, afraid of light
on a day the birds withheld their songs,
deference to the gentle gospel notes
sifting through air thick with the mulling
of life’s worth, our recompense for heresy.
Flowers abound in close proximity,
coloring the room left gray by the blank stare
the silent Zenith offers for comfort.
Leaning closer, I ask for a hint from the girl
she’s become, too late to save the woman.
The frail ash of a lady wants roses for us
before the wind picks up and blows her away.
© 2003 Jason C. Jones