Roses Only

At the edge of the field, things are wide and their singing is hushed. Each cup of the rose holds slightly its perfumed manner, reviving the soul while tremors cross all shoo— far from all forms of desperate heart and the devilry of blooms cast in pale skies—
more like a failing art; summer came to our region even as rain lacked and the moment dipped toward nothing. The help of form gives rise; every detail brightens being called with a flutter. And around the final sunset, blooms ring full at twilight promises lay to rest,
unmistakably, all at once.—

Although the moon is breathing alive, tomorrow comes to grind the hills of bruises, only days form like caskets to rue through. Then only roses survive, yet fade back eventually.

• Marianne Moore