The Rosebush is Withering

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The rosebush is withering,
It's a sad thing to see,
Warmth leaves without it,
Aborting its smile of glee,

That we will no longer see.

The memory of writing,
Beneath its soft leaves,
And finding my purpose,
Sitting on my knees,

And praying for its comforting ease.

The summer hides in the horizon,
And winter comes to bite,
Bite at our nose, at our toes,
And eat at the rosebush's dying sight.

The cold eats and eats and bites.

The rosebush is very old,
Very cold and very bare,
I hope for Spring to save,
But I fear in my prayer,

It's too tired to care,
And too late to bear.
Any more roses for me.

The rosebush has breathed its last season...

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