The Only Rose There Is
Not
what were roses like
when you could touch
them, Great-Great-Great-
Great-Great-Great-Great-
Grandmother,
but
the week-in-the-vase
rose on the table now,
heavy-headed, a girl
with a bonnet for a face
sewn to a blanket.
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6 comments:
Ah, nostalgia.
where does time exist? it is not linear, after all, is it?
xo
erin
*grin*
Uh huh!
Your second stanza stands alone.
I agree with Maureen on the second stanza, Hannah. Great work here!
Beautiful Hannah.
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