You see the world in poetry and roses –
the secret language of the songbirds
swelters in the tides of the summer breeze;
you hear their rings and choral chimes
as enjambment and internal rhyme,
the waterfall roars like a lion in your
mind, the water running like white
stallions over stretching hills of blue.
Her beauty is wrapped in metaphors
like thick bands of silk that obscure
the perfect wrapping of a present.
The spirals of her autumn hair fall
as freely as brittle leaves, that
crumple beneath careless feet;
they never think to stop and look,
and listen to them fracture into mosaics.
Her laughter is the Summer, and lighter
than the day that shines so white
you forget how darkness ever felt;
but her sleep reminds that the moon
can burn more deeply than the Sun. You
thought you could forget the stinging
cold of her nights, but her darkness
is as bright as her sunshine laughter.
And every mistake bursts into purple
roses of capillaries, blooming into
flower paintings; wishing to pull back
the canvas to see what masterpieces her
flaws could form. Each sharp word
pricks like thorns that stick in your skin,
but your accidents could never be as
beautiful as hers; her rose petal lips
and rosewater eyes are gardens where
perfect things bloom between the
splintered wooden lattices of you.
Her burden is the spikes she grew to
threaten the world as it threatened her; the
burgundy torture of her soul bleeds into
her blossoms to glorify a window display,
to be uprooted and admired for her
sunshine suffering, burning to survive in
a world whose only escape is Winter.
Her eyes are Winter snow, now. Cold like
the ocean rupturing into roaring saltwater
waterfalls she sounds like horses on blue
mountains she feels like broken glass
of forgotten autumn mosaics she tastes like
splinters in your rose petal tongue and
bleeds into windows of Winter and Summer
she is the seasons and roses and petals
and Sun and you lost her in lattices and gardens
of roses and poetry.