Trees swaying in the breeze
Roses, the smell of your death as they grow in my brain.
Trees sway to the music that I play in my head to distract me from your pain.
The rose drops and the clock tick-tocks… time ran out for her, for you, for me.
The tree gave me hope that your roots and your love would hold me, would love me… but I gave up.
The rose painted yellow of the face I only see on my mom’s favorite frame, of a woman loving jello.
I ask if I look like the rosiness of your face if the roots of the tree in my yard connect me to yours
The trees sway to the different music. I look at your picture interrupted by a tear, a hole created there.
Feelings of not knowing how I feel, or what to do. The fear of never seeing you in my rose garden.
Trees play in the music of the tune of great loss, a different song, but never a different tune.
The yellow roses planted in the ground, they are you, and they are beauty and nothing.
The roses have thorns like the memories, the ones I will never understand. I crave what I can’t grasp.
The memories lie stuck of things told to me, about you, cleaned cut out fractions of your human frame.
Yellow roses have always been just black, a colorless frame to your picture just left black for me.
I look at your picture one more time; you hold my hand and pet my hair, like your daughter, my mom.
I hear your music in my head, pet my hair, I watch.
I see your face again in the rose I set on your grave.