The roses
They swirl around perfectly painted white lattice work
Reds that range from the color of blood
To the bright cherry red of the neighbor's new convertible
It's like a natural French flag flying on my front lawn
Right now the roses are confined to the straight laced lattice work
But give them time to mature
And those roses are going to explode
As I grow older and
The edges start to fray on my antique rugs
As well as in other places
As I morph into
"That crazy lady who lives down the street"
The one who lets kids climb the ancient, gnarled trees in the front lawn
And weaves them thrilling tales of adventure
From the murky and long faded memories of youth
Those roses are going to flourish
Boys will pick them to take to their girls
And I'll laugh because I used to long for a guy like that
Then maybe I'll look at your picture
I'll pick you a bunch of roses and take them to you
When I get there we'll talk about the roses
And how much you hated them
But I insisted they has to stay
And now look, you were right, they've taken over

So there I will sit
With silent old you and the roses
Sweetly waiting out the rest of my days.