What’s turned the leaves to lace, shredded the blooms
on the stalk? Unseen finger, riddling the roses, culling
for what’s unspent among the spray of wilting greens:
my smear of dogged hope, my stubborn longings.
[LAG-signature date=”09 09 2013″ url=”http://morningporch.com/2013/09/159123419/”]