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He brought me butter-yellow roses,
I was his, he thought, for our forever,
yet, I was foolish and cavalier,
no commitment of devotions.
His heart, I mourn, was golden.
What is love for me presently,
in my elder's years of remembrance,
I pause in the morns to fancy,
of romantic summer's flowers
on the garden trellis,
adoring hummingbirds court
them in dances of flight,
midst rainbow sparkles of
water in a sun shower.
The taste of strawberry wine,
of wanting him again,
as if he were everlasting
honeysuckle vines,
and there in the yard,
regally displayed,
butter-yellow roses weep
in their dewy awakening
of the loss -
in dawns of
bittersweet sufferings of love.
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