a fading rose

A sense of insolence flashes in her eyes

Beaming as bright as the night of her youth

In the full day of life’s stage, time bends her

inward, towards the latter evening

We see the living ghost of girlish youth,

hosted by slightly resentful matron

housed in present and past beauty,

she is a fading rose between thorny memory

and petal fall.

I am the weathered hand,

fingertips and opened palm still hold

the scent of the flower’s edge

I wonder of the air near her skin

where there is new treasure,

born of moments  that hold us

soft, like a gentle night wind

and leave nothing outward

but a place of eternal spring, within.
where her lost beauty is found
in the heart of my heart...