Frozen Roses

by Willi Brown


Wolves mate for life,

humans separate

at the flip of a coin.

The moon is filling

and I'm absolutely alone

walking huddled in my coat

past a snow-capped bush

of frozen roses.

 

It could be worse.

I could be some mindless

male insect killed by

my lover the queen during

the act.

Instead I stand, human,

crazy with confusion

just looking at frozen roses.

 

Once, just once,

I thought it might last.

But tonight I know

the wolf never thinks

of the tomorrow of love,

or of working it out,

or the cold, poetic significance

of frozen roses.		

next



tuesday...