Late Bloomer

It flares up at sunrise, a blush in a bramble

Tumbling out of its bed by the city pavement—a single

Rose, coral heat, at the end of the season.

And you are drawn to it, to its scent, its silky

Layers, to its core. It gathers you into its

Body until you lose your balance, all you can see

Is a petaled grid, an endless repetition

Of roses. You sink swirling into the rose,

Deep into the rose, into the rose.

I hold you to me. Love, I am forty-four,

And you, love, you, my love,

You have planted me.