Pink rose lying

in a wheel barrel of change,

no angel is there

for a dying child;

happy you lived,

unknowing you died

with no memorial reason,

cut for fading

to make room for more;

let me not cut hope for fading

or blame it for not

being alive now.

Red rose lying

at the feet of hope,

like a terminal child

cut from the root

of self sustaining life,

it is your place to die

beautifully without a tear

by an angel statue

meant to stand with wings

that touch the sun,

unbowed and never cut

but not yet alive like you were.

Let me see beauty

until I can reconcile the loss.

Even a dead rose holds itself.

One day the living will meet

the sun with wings to fly

past all doubt into a cure.

Too late for who I know now,

so I cry among the flowers

that, alive or dead, smell sweet.