POETRY

The Last Rose of Summer and a Good Smoke

A poem

Photo by engin akyurt on Unsplash

Chosen from amongst the yellow daisies, goldenrod,
lavender-blue periwinkle, feathery purple asters
and delicate white bamboo blossoms,
all tempting, but none quite right.

She shimmered in the late afternoon light
glorious magenta against thorny forest green
The last rose of summer
smelled of fall raspberry and pure vanilla
her fragrance wafting like smoke
from a well-selected cigar.

Not settled for, but chosen
the long-awaited flower of desire
bloomed in the waning hours of the day
just in time for the winds of autumn
to whisper warnings of the frost and
the deep snows to come with winter’s eternal rest.

An offering of sensual joy, with each inhale
Once picked, it fades in time.

The cigar glowed red hot and amber with white ash rings
shrinking with each exhale and story told
of all the flowers not chosen or left to wither.

Would the last rose of summer be left
to extinguish, dry up in the smoky haze
or placed on a shelf, out of sight
or cherished, thorns and all
in the waning days of life.