Wednesday, 28 March 2012

The last rose of summer — the one that had budded just at the end of the season, lingered in its safe green vestments for days into weeks, slowly erupted into perfect coral with petals that could cover my palm, and endured three frosts — now, at this moment verging on November, droops in a sigh and a willing expiration.

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Ruth E. Feiertag

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