December and white roses~~by the armful they come.
Pale pleated heads; one word and they fall,
laid on pillows lithely blushed pink,
soft petals fragrant like freesia or lilies.
I am calling your name,
longing for your snowy lawn,
the crisp collar undone,
the cuff that holds your hand
gently grazes the luster of my brow.
Slipping silk down my cheek.
you breathe lotus and peony
with undertones of amber,
sweetmeats and halwa
from the street stalls of Constantinople.
But we are ghosts at sunset,
blue-veined gauze, fragile and easily torn;
floating fading promises tumbled to the ruins,
the old wood and boulders of Sope Creek,
crashing to the Chattahoochee
rimmed with hoarfrost,
but still flowing turbid & broad.
And there we loose our souls,
let go the bouquet of osmanthus
and spider mums that spin and splay
to ever darker gray eddies and disappear
in distant mists.