Blood red, lipstick pink and Easter yellow.
There's no dying clutch of stem or thorn.
These Dublin roses are here to stay.
Maybe even through the winter.
But the birch trees along Baggot Street
are dragging barren.
The lower leaves foliage.
Yellow faded edges in the late-November drizzle.
The heady rose scent soothes me, as I bend the stem down.
Cushioned in the drizzle coated softness.
Hubby and I breathe deep the wet white petals.
Enjoying our alone time.
Memories of you.
Our chance to mourn as son-in-law and daughter.
Combined loss, horror and injustices have filled this past year.
Still we heal with each step forward.
Your daily legacy.
I trickle hello with the wet clay between fingertips.
The trees they sift, raindrop and bird song.
I know you hear me Mom.
Your voice will ring out.
You speak in the wind.
Smile in the rain.
Sashay through flower-filled skies
where you be - Now.
Peace of soul.
Home at last.