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Jes Feb 2021
The rose,
Staid on the porch rail,
Was forbidden in the parlor.
First frost arrived,
Enrobing petals in velvet,
Crimson thick and skin softened,
Bewildering. Those who stroll by
But not take —

Who could handle
The scentless spectacle
Spoiling inside?

A private decay in a white blanket tomb,
A fading in a deafened hollow.
Next year the neighbor will plant
New roses to surrender.

— The End —