he found himself in the house
alone reading yesterday’s news
at the breakfast-littered kitchen table
taking one last sip he glanced up
at the pale walls dotted with
those small delicate things
women seemed obliged to own
tiny portraits in ornate silver frames
his grandmother’s sampler
slightly unravelled the dream had faded
into sleep once it was
miraculous an effulgent vision
plucked on impulse from
an overhanging branch a stolen rose
clutched thorns and all in trembling hands
with all the promise of spring it began
then summer and autumn nothing
lasts forever he thought but perhaps
(c) 2020 by Hannah Six
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