Rose
Here is the rose
I cut from the rosebush yesterday,
placed upon the ornamental box,
a study in life after death.
It is morning and you and I
have just woken.
There is birdsong.
Are we becoming light?
Our bed is a small
Church of England grave,
a country place,
where the dew settles upon the grass.
We rarely talk, but when we do,
we mean it.