This is an old rose, decades old. It has seemingly died more times than can be counted.
Then there is new growth, a rebirth, life again.
Run, as if we can burn off the anger and pain.
Hide, craft shells and excuses, blame others for absence,
then blame ourselves because we are closer at hand.
But some things don’t die.
They just get bruised.
Like love mistreated, rough handled.
Buried in sorrow, wrapped in barbs.
That is this life, is it not?
Offering these new, fresh leaves, guarded by thorns.
Offering old clichés about roses and love
and your soft eyes and sweet mouth,
the space between dreams and darkness,
between dry, barbed stalks, and tender, fresh leaves
that are hope against a brittle past.