November Rose

It's a Jane or Johnny-come-lately,

the solitary rose in my garden,

a harvest holdover or belated bloom

that's risen when the others have died.

It has none to compete for attention,

isn't lost in a sea of red.

I ponder its predicament,

think of it as lonely,

regretting it didn't blossom sooner

when the buzz of flying insects

were droning their affection.

I'll water it in the evening,

as stars speck the sky in Autumn's cool.

I'll sing it to sleep

as I retire,

pray for grace

should the frost strike swift.

Andreas Gripp

RF Image