The Rose Below My Window

When the sun rose the breeze would change temperature.

The night that had been so welcoming to this cold,

static within that attitude,

suddenly had shifted and softened

between the dial of a clock.

It was day.

What did that mean?

Would the birds sing?

And the flowers open?

And the trees wave in this seemingly important breeze?

Somewhere the birds were singing and the flowers blooming and the trees

waving, whether or not it was silent to some eyes.

A sweetness sparkled through the sunlight

tasting of blueberries and oranges that painted

the sky and my memories pastel.

Resting against a corner between a door and a window

grew a rose vine

dressed in green leaves

with petals that melted between pink and white,

small gift-wrapped petals which bleed into these green leaves.

Her roots held hands with ferns and daffodils that giggled

and her body twisted at the waist twirling towards the sky.

She breathed at the sight of the sun

and held her breath at the sight of the moon.

Ants tickled her spine and bees whispered in her ears.

Birds performed opera sonatas to serenade her

and butterflies rested in her hands.

A corner that collected secrets and treasures

that pooled at her roots,

small plastic toys and coins buried two inches

below the surface.

A bank below my window that would

welcome spring and propose winter.

A place with the idyllic harmonies of nature and

the nostalgic wistfulness of childhood.

A mark on my dreams as a motif

of the place I used to call home.