Welting Roses
The pretty flowers that you picked
Once so beautiful and bright
Now lie limp in their vase
Wilted and dead
To look at a rose, has once to be said
To cure all hopelessness and pain
Wiping it away from the face of the holder
All the while thinking of the giver
Not given as a motion of guilt
Not thought of as a product of pain
Not thought to die off
Not thought to lie in memory
Like flowers in December
So familiar, yet rare
I have to constantly touch
To believe
Only to find
That you're
Not
and never were
Really there
-- Kathryn Berit Hoyme