You tell me, your voice a subtle murmur,
"The roses are sleeping," as in winter
Is coming with the howl of the wolf and
A bite to match, the morse code for
The living are dying; aging and withering
Soon they will be bequeathed to the ground,
Where they will no longer be in bundles, and
The only connection we will have will them
Is when we find them on the soles of our feet--
When they go they feel a sense of familiarity,
As if they had been there before, as if they
Were going home after a tiresome journey;
Almost as if their souls are hibernating
You will feel heavy, melancholy almost as if
Time is standing still, and suddenly years have
Passed and you're standing at your sink scrubbing
The stains from steel pans and your body convulses,
Sobs are wretched from the very core of your being and
You must remember winter is a season that happens
Every year, and, "The roses are sleeping," and soon
You will be, too
