The flower began to dribble pollen that hot summer's day;
Land parched, wind throatless, the sun mottled as it fell.
He is a rose bloomed but blemished
Never quite so pink nor so thorned,
That he could not sit there and not ooze and ooze that day -
Until water turned to gold,
Until soil shrank from my roots,
Until notes sang out unyielded,
Until from petals sprang spoiled fruit.
© Crisp