Beauty Itself


My mother died with a red rose in her hand,
a rose from her garden.
Maybe she could still sense its perfume
with her wounded brain
My father didn't know

He had placed it gently
in awe immobile hand,,
not wanting her to slip away
without a thing of beauty
to take with her
to reflect their long love
to signal their happiness

It swept away the hospital green
by its living, crimson presence
not for just a moment,
because she had so loved
color and scent and warmth
because he still saw her
in all her beauty

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