some poems

Last Rose

The world is a pattern of racing raindrops,
A veil, a shadow to obscure
My vision of you.
Except for your rose, the last rose,
The last thing you gave me,
The last thing you touched,
My enduring memory of you.
Its smell is the smile that lifts me,
Its petals are the arms that protect me,
Its life is the force that spans miles
To keep your presence near.
As water gives it life,
Its life gives me hope,
Hope that you will return to me
Safe from harm.
So you see,
Next time you give me a rose,
Know that it is more than a gesture,
It is much more than that,
It is hope, it is love, it is you.