by Jerry Ratch
The roses ask for you when I smell them
They seem to remember your touch more than
others. They can't bear it when you're gone
and wonder when you'll be returning
I am beginning to do the same
I no longer go outdoors to be with them
because the litany of names that you
whispered in their sweet ears
upon leaving, has grown loud
I think the neighbors hear them
The roses are planted in a row along the
fence. I don't have the heart to go out
pulling weeds among them. They're too red
I can't go past without them catching my
coat. They need pruning. You did that
Now they hang down their faces and look
abandoned. Come back. I don't have the same
touch. Take one more round with them
Things will never be the same as before you
left, but they will revive, I know it
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I like the poem, Jerry. Especially like no punctuation at the close of each stanza. Good.
Thanks again, Sam!
Good poetry, Jerry. We've had a similar experience our roses.
. . . with our roses, that is.
Thanks, J.