Blue Rose
Adrienne Copeland
The woman sits still, alone
on the familiar cast iron stoop.
Grooves in her leather skin
gather dust, marked dry streaks
where water ran. Withered
stature, rock-plated bones. I watch
her hair turn silver. Her eyes—
once brilliant lights—extinguished.
I crave to know why the woman
of rose became distant, despondent—
But I also have not befriended the sun
that allows seeds in cracks to grow.
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