Insubstantial

I opened, one early morning the window in the door,
and was met with a face that looked like a cloud; it
blew frost roses on the glass, they were so beautiful,
abstract, and oh, so fragile.
Years ago by the cloister's wall, I saw some miniature
looking roses, I replanted them in my garden, they
disappeared I thought they had died out, but this spring
they were by my wall nodding shyly in the breeze.
As the spring turned into summer, they had no shade
and disappeared like frost roses on the window glass;
and that is ok by me, cause I know they are there just
under the earth waiting for another spring.