YESTERDAY'S ROSE

To some,
my poems are songs of sorrow
that can make dreams weep.

To others,
they are moonbeams of hope,
that not only shine
on the sanctity of breath
and the silence of death,
but on the importance
of the space
that comes in between.

For me,
they are the children
that we never had.
The flowers that made
a garden between us.
The treasure-house of dances
that come from her song.
The music of her name
that I can touch
with a thought or a smile.
The vivid colors
of the emotional palette,
deep-seated in my heart,
that echoes the rainbow
that wraps itself
around her soul.

They are the conversations
that flowed seamlessly,
Cross-word puzzles
and wine at 5:00 PM.
The sound
of the night rain
on the skylight,
The refrain of Woodrow
purring with pleasure
on the lap
of his most devoted admirer.

As long as I write,
she endures,
as do I,
and her memory
will never be erased.

As long as she is a dream
where forever remains,
not only on pen and paper,
but in the hearts
of those of us
who loved her,
she will never become
yesterday's rose.

© JOHN PISCATELLA