the last autumn roses are so red
they are brown
petals dry at the ends,
waiting for winter to claim them,
or a merciful soul to cut them
and let them fall in place.
so i worry, so i worry.
everything has its season.
everything.
the best plants have deep roots
that are trained by necessity to
siphon the smallest drops
from the soil.
drought, after drought, and
they do not die but
become stronger.
not this, not us,
not eden.

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