I knew it was over when the rose bush died.
Symbolic of the parched times we shared.
Ironically, we dried up during in the rainy season.
It was sad to see what was once moist,
And untiring evaporate into an impoverished shrub,
Pleading to be dug up and composted.
I have died a thousand times with a thousand,
Different mitts around my neck. Yet, I refuse,
To pull the skin over my eyes and hide from love.
Tomorrow another radiant woman will unfold,
And place her tiny fingers over my lips,
Whispering a new song to my bed and garden.
And we will plant azaleas and golden apples,
While breathing-in the cool Pacific breeze.