Roses in Late Summer, Year 2

The roses wane, softer in time
petals pale gold, memory of warm
sunshine, but naught warmth itself.

Late afternoons slow almost standstill,
leaves curling at the edges,
the sky holds its light like a secret,
sunlight thinned into honey maple syrup,
and the grass, faded green, now crunches under bare feet.

The wind smells faintly of endings,
of dreams and sweet fruit left too long to rot,
and the radio hums a song I almost remember.
Windows cracked, not all the way
just enough to let the air whisper in.

but

There are still days
when I gaze at skies: Polaroid painted, picture perfect 
clouds lit from within, the sun spilling
its golden innards across the horizon,

and

for a moment I feel the ghost of that heat.
That humidity, driving down the highway,
with the windows rolled down all the way again,
and holding on to unrelenting summer not yet faded.

so

I suppose I should unbox those old summers,
unwrap the passionately pressed petals and see
if they still remember the heat that made them bloom.

Grab the stem, cut away
Flower for another day
Pressed between pages dry in array
Flower for another day

Mary Rose, Wildeve, The Poet’s Wife.