It pricked her hand and then she bled
This sullen rose she’d always fed.
No blossoms here in two long years
With only thorns to prompt her tears.
She’d cut it down if she were mad
To stop the times it made her sad.
Yet purposely it served her well
And helped her find a voice to yell.
Then tears did fall and cleansed her thought
Relieving her of what life wrought.
Into a tiny handkerchief
She breathed the air and felt relief.
first two lines remind me of my cat who loves to scratch the hand that feeds him :)
ReplyDeleteJoking aside, such a beautiful and deeply atmospheric poem, Dixie, and I love when I can visualize your poems in my head like a scene from a movie
Thank you, Dezmond, that is quite a compliment!!
DeleteAt six years old I had a cat named Tiger. He had black and yellow- gold stripes. We'd sit in the dogwood tree together for hours. His fatal habit was chasing cars. Oh well.
Love the poem, to me that was poetry.
ReplyDeleteThank you Jo. Did you see "Her Rose"? It was posted before this one?
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