Even Roses

by Marta T. Coppola


I rooted up the spurs of autumn
and heard them howl of brevity.

Watched the leaves, like fingers and tongues
curl against the new breath.

Littered skins so unwilling to augur.
Diffident as ash.

The wind blows through the bloom —
the pink crush again.

Contusions spread
from dark merlot to violet
to yellow, and then

the sun itself — a ruse.
Sandy light forks meridians
through the cloud set, now stippling

vigilante soil (the clay speaks!)

And so is eternity
pounded flat, petals baked sun-dry, where

roses fall to rust.


Copyright © 2009 by Marta T. Coppola

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