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
Andreas Gripp
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