Rose

Near a lake

the rose holds

its reflection,

waiting

to be plucked—

by the beloved.

It waits

like the moon

waiting for its gleam.

Raindrops whisper

to the rose:

winter is coming.

Winter wraps the rose.

The rose touches winter

like summer.

Autumn falls on the rose

like her beloved fingers.

The rose looks at the moon.

The moon stares back.

And it smiles—

a moon over

forgotten grave.