Petit Rose
Laying the length of my hand.
Teasing with softness at your head
as I roll you over.
Reveling in the remnants of sunship
and handling light so well.
Selected at prime.
The peak of essence.
One day to be gone,
with the last of fragrance.
Life’s work done.
A coquettish rose who knows,
to only purse beauty in fullness.
Pouting out pungencies
as load bearing elements
from rich, full lips.
Wearing its enveloping gown,
neither belted nor sashed.
Having both pride and place.
With the full-on passion of the recently converted.
Now displaced from the garden’s
nodding agreements.
Now, at long last,
rest in the palm of my hand.