Initially, you pinch its crotch—
Gralove—an ester, rictus flowing,
juice of the rose. Everlasting
Love, she’s named. To
save her, you first
snip those arteries, cut
any sap flow drawn down
like red scabs on cooling maples.
Her Shakti dozes each
winter, a bear in hibernation.
Tap so hard you must wrest
her petals with a force taken
from her body, the blood
of each of her sweetest blossoms.
Two summers of roses—
that, such a short interpretation
of the word everlasting—
soft petals lolling like cow tongues,
licking you both with love.
But her demise, when she’s only
a toddler, while sad & sudden
as a wolf’s cry torn from the night,
lacks any portent. As Chekhov’s
gun, her ashes nourish all of
the remaining soil, reborn.