Rose Garden
Christopher Bogart
Bleached white bones,
jagged,
sharp-edged,
Point like bony fingers,
ribs,
claws,
Paw dry soil
In a fruitless effort
to escape
their timeless shame,
Their buried fate.
Barren bits of lime,
point to
their crime,
The failure of their task
to guard
their charge,
their mollusk meat,
stolen
To feed the need
to survive.
I dig now
deep,
deeper.
The metal of my shovel tip
hits grit,
scoops sand, and
Their buried bones,
A treasure trove of shell,
In their earthen grave,
so wide,
so deep,
Forever keeping me
from my dreams
of roses.
Published in Saggio Poetry Journal (Fall, 2008)
Flowers, like a fashion, always transfer, express and symbolize our emotions. Your blog looks perfect and it is appreciated. Iflorist.co.uk
ReplyDeleteThank you very much for your comment on my poem and my blog. Since the purpose of the blog was to open a conversation on poetry, your response is much appreciated.
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