~ Robin Korth
To brighten the ashen December overcast
I buy myself thirteen yellow roses.
Within a week, the mature ones blossom.
When their large rose hips wilt
and fall, I toss them –
who clasp their petals together.
I trim the pair of survivors,
set them to dry in a waterless vase.
I name them after the two brothers
we lost a few months ago.
our children and grandchild fly off
from their holiday visit, leaving us
a pair of fuchsia orchids
to color our winter.
I carry the dried rosebuds
out to the back deck
which overlooks the forest.
I peel off the petals,
release them over the edge.
cascading back to nature.
I applaud.In my hand, a few moist petals
cling to the center of each stem,
as if to say, We are still alive.
I let them go.
It’s the new New Year.