thought no good in cold
and laid beneath the snow
mostly naked
in air twelve below
and summer far away
and late now to be spared
with only commercial hearsay
how the rose is unprepared
to find itself so stiff
that having one cane touched
makes irreparable rift
between the gardener and itself
despite its job (being saved,
sheltered with fallen leaves
atop its temporary grave
and buried in a drift
among brown and drying
sunflower stems
the wind is petrifying)
exposes a thorny quill
points undulled
summer leaves still
waiting to be culled
as if they know abandonment
and its supposed routine
yet each node
a red brown yellow green
angle breathing out
one stubborn contextual sprout
the rose itself is understood in
despite its being thought no good in.
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