Roses for Her Grave
      By JoHannah P. Green

It is the place I keep
roses,
beautiful, sweet-smelling
sharp-thorned.
It is the place I sit
sometimes for a moment
sometimes for
an hour
waiting for the tears to stop.
Waiting for the day
the roses will fade.
The petals so lovely,
so bright,
filled with sunlight-
filled with life-
so vibrant.
I sit and watch the grass
grow up.
I sit and watch the roses
wilt and fade and die.
Their colors, once so fresh,
red, yellow, peach, coral
white,
swell
-like hope
-like the opening chords of a symphony
-like the beginning moments of new love,
so delicate
so easily bruised.
I watch the roses on her grave.
They die and turn to dust.
Strange.
They are not watered by my
river of tears.