Trees swaying in the breeze

Roses, the smell of your death as they grow in my brain.

Trees sway to the music that I play in my head to distract me from your pain.

The rose drops and the clock tick-tocks… time ran out for her, for you, for me.

The tree gave me hope that your roots and your love would hold me, would love me… but I gave up.

The rose painted yellow of the face I only see on my mom’s favorite frame, of a woman loving jello.

I ask if I look like the rosiness of your face if the roots of the tree in my yard connect me to yours

The trees sway to the different music. I look at your picture interrupted by a tear, a hole created there.

Feelings of not knowing how I feel, or what to do. The fear of never seeing you in my rose garden.

Trees play in the music of the tune of great loss, a different song, but never a different tune.

The yellow roses planted in the ground, they are you, and they are beauty and nothing.

The roses have thorns like the memories, the ones I will never understand. I crave what I can’t grasp.

The memories lie stuck of things told to me, about you, cleaned cut out fractions of your human frame.

Yellow roses have always been just black, a colorless frame to your picture just left black for me.

I look at your picture one more time; you hold my hand and pet my hair, like your daughter, my mom.

I hear your music in my head, pet my hair, I watch.

I see your face again in the rose I set on your grave.